


Clueless

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Non-Stop Gifts/AUs [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boyfriends, College AU, Consensual Violence, Dating, Insecurity, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Stop - Freeform, violence kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:53:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6180920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Non-Stop Au: </p><p>John doesn't realize he's dating Lafayette. Until he does. And when he does realize it, he's not prepared. Dates mean fancy dinners in fancy restaurants. And that's not him. </p><p>But he really likes Lafayette...so he'll do it anyway. Even if he's miserable. </p><p>___________________</p><p>Alternatively: John's clueless at dating, and Lafayette wastes no time rubbing it in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Date One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writelikeitsgoingoutofstyle (twoandahalfslytherins)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoandahalfslytherins/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Non-Stop](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5626945) by [writelikeitsgoingoutofstyle (twoandahalfslytherins)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoandahalfslytherins/pseuds/writelikeitsgoingoutofstyle). 



> This is a 6-part spin off of both Non-Stop by writelikeitsgoingoutofstyle (twoandahalfslytherins) and my fic Everything He Ever Wanted. 
> 
> I strongly recommend you reading Non-Stop before you read this story. 
> 
> In Everything He Ever Wanted, you see the relationship from Lafayette's point of view.

_[I Don’t Even Know]_

_What’s your schedule like?_

 

John stares at the message. He doesn’t know what to make of it. He traces his fingers over the picture of the open cadaver in his textbook. Lets his nail slide across the lines labeling each body part. His notebook is folded on his right knee. His text on his left. And sitting between them both is his phone. Mockingly innocent. Blinking patiently for him.

There are two numbers in his phone. Two numbers who have sent him text messages in the history of him owning this phone. The simple truth is; he doesn’t get text messages. Hasn’t since Alex ran off to do  _whatever_ with Burr. The screen goes dark. Tired of waiting for him. Huffing, he reaches for the phone. Carefully picking it up. Scooting so his back presses against the wall, John brings the phone to his face.

Lafayette’s contact is saved under “I Don’t Even Know”, and it smiles up at him. A happy little emoticon showing just how patient the upperclassman was being. John taps out a one-word question. Tosses the phone to the right. Goes back to his Anatomy and Physiology homework.

The phone buzzes before he can even get his eyes focused on the dissection. Huffing, he snatches it back.

 

_[I Don’t Even Know]_

_Send it to me._

 

“Send me yours,” John mutters. Tapping the response into the phone. He gets a picture less than four seconds later. It’s a photo of Lafayette’s class schedule. From Monday to Friday. “Cuddle time????” is written in red ink under Friday at 3pm. John’s got a lab then.

He pauses. Thinks about how he wants to answer. Reaching for his binder, he thumbs his schedule out from where it’d been hiding under a plastic sheet. He thinks for a moment, before picking up a pen and writing FIGHT ME >:( under his Friday lab.

He takes the picture and sends it. Waits for the response.

 

_[I Don’t Even Know]_

_Okay <3_

 

He doesn’t say anything else. John finishes his homework. Rolls on his side, and stares at a wall. He thinks briefly of going down to the cafeteria to get dinner, but he doesn’t want to go by himself.

John rolls onto his other side. Feels his books starting to flop off his lap. It really doesn’t matter, he knows. He’d pick them up in the morning. Holding the phone loosely, he thinks about texting Alex.

“Fuck it.” He punches in six letters and a question mark.

Ten minutes go by.

Twenty.

Thirty.

His eyes start to slip closed. Exhaustion starting to pull against his skin. Draining his body downwards. A bing comes in.

 

_[Sweetie]_

_Nir tinht_

 

John stares at the letters. Waits for the correction to come.

It does almost three seconds later.

 

_[Sweetie]_

_Not tonight_

 

John tosses his phone onto his desk. And goes to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

On Fridays he has Introduction to Critical Thinking at 8am, Anatomy and Physiology II at 2pm, and his A&P lab at 3pm. John drags himself to class in the morning. Pulling a scarf around his throat and keeping his head tucked low. He wraps his arms around his chest. Shuffles his feet through the snow build up on the ground.

It’s been a mild winter, but he’s still cold. Still ready for it to be over. Kids are shouting at each other across the square. Joking and laughing with their friends. Alex has an English class this morning. His room’s not too far from John’s. They used to walk together...before.

John’s fingers tighten around jacket. Squeezing the sides. His backpack’s straps dig into his shoulders. He hears Alex’s voice. Looks up. Aaron’s walked him to class. They’re standing together by the door. Alex looking waifish. Small. John’s tempted to call out. To walk towards them.

He hasn’t told Alex about Lafayette yet. Hasn’t told him that he fucked another guy. That he fought Lafayette, and Lafayette fought back. That now Lafayette’s texting him. That...he thinks he made a friend? John wants to tell. Wants to show off his shiny new toy, same as Alex.

But then Alex leans forward and Aaron gives him a hug, and John flinches. Turns away. Rushes to his own class. It doesn’t matter. He’s not jealous. He’s not hurt.

He’s not.

He’s perfectly fine.

Throwing himself in his seat, he jerks his notebook out. Slams it on his desk. “Wow, attitude much?” Kitty Livingston asks him. John bares his teeth.

“Wow, bitchy much?” he snaps back. Her face flushes red. Her friends have all heard, and now they’ve clustered together. Scooting their desks to the side. High-school bullshit that John has no time for.

He glares down at the notebook on his desk. Carefully withdraws his homework. Fuck Alex. Fuck Aaron. And Fuck Lafayette.

It doesn’t matter. None of them do.

John scribbles his notes. Writes words and words of arguments down between the thin college-ruled lines of his papers. He’s angry. He doesn’t even really know why, but he is. He’s furious. And as he marches back to his dorm room after class, he wishes he could figure it out.

Alex could date whoever he wanted. He could sleep with whoever he wanted. John never had a claim on him. And it’s clear Alex didn’t want him to care.  _Don’t pretend._ He flinches away from the echoed words.

Redoubles his efforts to get back to his room and close the door before anyone notices or says a thing. Before he runs into Alex again and risks hearing something he doesn’t want to hear. He scrambles up the stairs two at a time. Slams his dorm room door shut behind him. Sliding down to sit against it. Knees pulled up to his chest.

Anger keeps circling through him.

Last time they’d fought; John hadn’t even tried being nice.

_Not going to fuck or choke him...better things to do…_

Alex complained afterwards. Even though  _he’d_ been the one calling John for the booty-call. He’d been the one prostituting John for his own ends. And John had gone. Of course he had. He was treated to lunch with Alex and the boyfriend afterwards as a consolation prize. Treated to someone who  _was_ allowed to care for someone. Who could actually do it right.

And sure. Afterwards Alex had been nice. Had met up with him here or there. Had lunch. Deigned to sully himself with John’s presence as he introduced John to all the people so much better than he was. Introduced him to—

—Lafayette…

John’s hand lifts. Presses against a bruise just above his sternum. Trails up to trace the edges of the hickey left under his collar. He’s struck by the completely irrational desire to text the Frenchman. Take him up on that offer. See him after class.

His hand drops down to his side.

Alex made it clear. John’s shit at relationships. Shit at friendships. And only good at fucking and fighting. Lafayette’s made it clear too. That’s all he’s interested in as well.

John doesn’t text Lafayette. If he needs an outlet, he’ll find one himself.

 

* * *

 

 

His classmates mutter about John under their breaths. They send him suspicious glances when they think John can’t see them. It’s fine. Nothing’s changed since high-school. It maybe just took everyone a few months longer to figure out that he’s just as much of an albatross as he’d been back then.

He wrote his notes. Kept his head down. Tried not to get involved with them. When they spoke to him, he tried to pretend he didn’t hear them.

Admittedly, he didn’t try very hard.

“John can you hand me that?” one particularly snide boy requests. Pointing to the scalpel by John’s elbow.

He picks it up. Looks at it for a long while. His incisions in their test subject earlier had been quick and methodical. Carefully done. The boy had suggested that he’d done it before. He didn’t mean legally.  

“I don’t know. I might need it later,” John sneers right back. Reflecting the light off the shiny metal blade. The boy turned puke green.

Asshole.

The lab ends the same as it started. John’s friendless. And everyone rushes to leave him alone as fast as possible. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, John huffs and leaves his classroom. All but crashing into Lafayette as he exited the building.

He stumbles backwards. Blinking rapidly at the taller man who peers down his nose at John. Brows arched. “Bad day?” he drawls. Accent thick and enticing.

“What’s it to you?” John barks back. He’s spoiling for a fight. He knows it. Hell. Lafayette should know it too. John flat-out wrote that in his schedule.

And Lafayette  _does_ know. His lips curl upwards. He holds out his hand. “Spend the weekend with me,” he invites. John stares at his hand. Caught off guard. He brings his eyes back up to meet Lafayette’s.

He’s been here before. Been in this exact situation. Been made a fool of because he thought someone was reaching out a hand of friendship, but really wasn’t.  _Fucking and fighting…all I’m good at._

And John’s tired of being everyone’s willing body. “You don’t want me in your house,” John growls low. Lafayette’s dark eyes turn savage. He reaches out and plucks John’s hand loose. Tugs him forward.

“Let me to decide that, hmm?” he hums against John’s lips. Before crashing them together.

John has kissed very few people in his life.

But no one’s yet made his brain go quite as instantaneously silent as Lafayette.

 

* * *

 

 

He goes home with Lafayette.

It’s such a relief.

He was tired of being alone.

 

* * *

 

 

John wakes up to an arm around his waist. It’s heavy and warm. Pulls John close. His ass is spooning against Lafayette’s groin. Lafayette’s breath is hot against his neck. Last night, he and Lafayette had bare knuckle boxed in Lafayette’s living room. Had fought each other ruthless and bloody.

And when they were done, Lafayette helped him into the kitchen. Cleaned off the scrapes on John’s hands. Let John do the same for him. They pressed ice to each other’s wounds. Sat on the couch and watched animal planet, sipping tea. Letting the furious beasts within their souls settle into dormancy.

At around midnight, Lafayette had nudged John up. Escorted him to the bedroom. He’d ignored John’s hesitation about the bed. Just dragged him down. Cuddled him close. John fell asleep before he could question it.

And he woke up in the arms of a man who saw him as he was. And at least for one week, hadn’t pushed him away just yet.

“You  _réveillé?”_ Lafayette slurs into his ear. Nose nuzzling his lobe. John closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to get kicked out. Doesn’t want to hear the inevitable end. He’s too tired to fight. To sleepy to build his guard. He braces for it anyway. “C’mon. Wanna show you  _quelque chose.”_

“What?” John asks. He can’t understand the words. Knows that they’re not all in English. But he can’t manage the translation.

 _“Nous allons à une date,”_ Lafayette sighs. He scoots out of bed. Warmth leaving John’s body immediately. He shivers. Even under the blankets. Longing for Lafayette’s heat to return.

He tries to make sense of the words.  _News al-ew-oin ah dah-tuh._ He can’t think of a single thing it means. Tries to guess. Data? Information? What’s Lafayette  _looking_ for?

Lafayette doesn’t explain. Just nudges him out of bed. Encourages him to put his clothes back on. To join him in the kitchen for a quick breakfast before they hurry off into the car. John half expects to be driven back to school. But he’s not.

Lafayette makes a left too soon. Gets on a back-road that leads nowhere. Just keeps going.

John’s too tired to ask. Not really caring at this point. Lafayette makes a half mumbled sound of protest as John curls against the car door and falls asleep again. But really, it’s Lafayette’s fault. John wouldn’t be so sleepy if Lafayette hadn’t been so... _thorough..._ the night before. He dozes in and out. And Lafayette eventually puts on some music. Something soft and soothing. John sleeps without a care in the world.

Waking up only when the car stops.

They’re at one of the hiking trails the school always brags about. Wooden trail head marker painted bright yellow. “C’mon!” Lafayette encourages. John blinks up at him.

The first day they’d met, Lafayette had said there were other ways to expel energy then fighting. Apparently, he went hiking. Data? Show John something. Maybe? Show John this?

Lafayette’s grinning. Bouncing on his toes. “You like?” he asks. John glances at the sign. It’s a 3.91-mile hike to the first viewpoint.

Breakfast digested. Weariness fading away as curiosity melts into interest. “Race you?” John asks sweetly, before he shoulders past Lafayette and takes off.

He hears Lafayette’s whoop of delight behind him.

The trail’s long and hard, but not as bad as it could be. It’s cold, but there’s not much snow on the ground. The earth’s not slippery. Not icy. They can run over fallen limbs and pointed rocks. They can trade glances as their shoulders brush. Side by side.

Morning light shifts and changes. Afternoon sun rising. Glittering through the trees. Running gives way to impassioned hiking. To Lafayette pointing out interesting views and trees. They stop and relax from time to time. Sore muscles stretched out before them.

John can feel his heart beating quickly within his chest. Sending adrenaline and energy racing through his body. He can’t remember the last time he felt so alive when he wasn’t recovering from a fight. Almost doesn’t miss the stinging pain of bruises. Even though if he twists a touch, he can feel them forming from last night.

Lafayette lifts his hands in the air. Reaching up to the sky. A flower searching for the sun. Dialing about until he gets it right. Running through the woods is harder than on a set trail. But Lafayette’s right. It’s a great way to expel some energy. And hey.

Lafayette grins over to him. Offers him his hand.

The view’s nice.

 

* * *

 

After the hike, Lafayette stops at an ice-cream parlor he knows on the way back. Buys John a smoothie because John didn’t have his wallet on him. “I’d have brought it if I knew where we were going,” John mutters as he holds the cup between his palms. Lafayette looks distinctly unimpressed by the comment, and herds him back to the car.

John fidgets in his seat. Sips his smoothie as Lafayette drives them home. To his home. Lafayette’s. “Are you gonna drop me at the dorm?” John asks suddenly. Unsure. He’d initially been invited for the weekend, but he’s never actually spent this long in someone else’s space before. Isn’t sure if it was more of a metaphor or meant seriously.

“Do you want to go back to the dorm?” He doesn’t. Not as such. He doesn’t want to be alone. But there’s a voice in the back of his head reminding him that if he keeps at this, he’s going to get hurt. Maybe not now. Maybe not for years to come.

But that just makes it worse.

_Pretend...mother…_

He takes too long to answer. Lafayette hums, and drives him back to the house. John tries to convince himself that it’s fine. He doesn’t care. It’s not a problem. Even though his euphoria from the hike is now fading to something sickly sweet. Something nauseatingly familiar.

Lafayette offers him the first shower, and John’s listless. He knows he’s a mess. Know he needs to clean. But the urge to argue and snap back is starting to become a running taunt in the back of his head.  _Fuck you. Fuck you and your weird ass ways. I don’t need to do this; I don’t need to be here. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you._

Lafayette’s lips quirk. He lifts his hand. Places it along the side of John’s face. Leans over and kisses him. It doesn’t silence the emotions. But it  _is_ a focus point. John kisses back. Lets Lafayette caress his lips with his own. Lets Lafayette guide him backwards. Against a wall. Lets him take and take and take.

All anyone ever wants is to take from him. Alex. Alex wants to be fucked or choked. Nothing else. And Lafayette’s the same. It’s what he’s looking for. It’s what he’s striving for. Lafayette angles his groin against John’s. Presses in close. John can feel his erection. Feel the bulge that sent him over the edge last night.

That pressed so comfortingly against his ass this morning.

John’s going to be sick. He wants this. He doesn’t. He should go back to the dorm. He should punch Lafayette and be done with this. End it before it gets worse. You start fighting people, and that’s all they want from you.

They’ll pretend day in and day out that they want more. But they’re lying. They only ever want one thing. It’s the only reason anyone surrounds themselves with monsters. So they can pretend to be part of the filth themselves.

John pulls back. His eyes are stinging. “Shower?” Lafayette whispers huskily in his ear.

“Okay,” John breathes back.

 _I’m making a mistake,_ he thinks. Lafayette leading him to the bathroom. Hand in hand.

Lafayette’s pulling John’s shirt off. Kissing and biting at his skin. It hurts. It doesn’t. It’s nice. It’s wrong. Lafayette’s sliding John’s pants off. His briefs. Wrapping his arms around him. Worshiping John’s skin. Massaging aching muscles.

The shower starts. Lafayette shimmies against his body. Naked too. They join together. Huddling for warmth under the spray. It feels so good. John knows it’s going to end. “Please don’t leave,” he whispers.

Water washing away the sound. Making it fall silently into an abyss. He doesn’t think Lafayette’s heard him. Wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t. Isn’t sure he wanted Lafayette to hear him in the first place.

But then Lafayette presses his lips to the side of John’s head. “Never.”

This isn’t how their story ends.


	2. Date Two

Monday morning comes. It always does. And maybe it came too soon. John had been starting to grow complacent. Mystified. Hoodwinked by Lafayette’s presence. Space was good. Being up each other’s asses all the time wouldn’t work at all. They needed distance. They needed—

—since when had they become a  _they?_

Slamming the door to Lafayette’s car without so much as saying ‘bye’, John runs to class. Critical Thinking. 8am. He still has his books from Friday. Had finished his homework on Lafayette’s kitchen table while the man cooked dinner. Passing him cheese and crackers while muttering, “ _Aperitif,_ then appetizer, then the main course — John, do keep up.”

Lafayette’s weird with his food. “You can’t just eat one énorme plate.  _C'est dégoûtant._ Try this.” He brings spoonful’s up to John’s lips. Watching John with dark eyes as John swirled them around his tongue.

John’s still flushing from the memory when he takes his seat. Kitty Livingston sends him a hateful look. Her friends pointedly turn their backs. He can’t bring himself to care. Fuck Kitty Livingston. At least  _he_ was getting some.

The professor walks in. The class settles down, and John opens his books. Prepares for the lecture. Tries to forget Lafayette’s teasing voice in his ear. “We should study, you and I. I will read you the words, and you will tell me the answer. And if you are right...I shall reward you.” Tries to wish away the feeling of Lafayette’s hands stroking John’s sides as he spoke. The sharp pain of his nipples being grabbed. Teeth at his throat.

 _Fuck._ He’s getting hard in class.

John shifts. Fights valiantly against the flush on his cheeks. Shifts his position again. Squeezing his thighs together. Emerging victorious. His dick sags. Unhappily ignored. Class continues. And John’s free from Lafayette for the rest of the day.

He doesn’t like it.

He misses him.

 

* * *

 

 

Three days of peaceful slumber somehow convinced John that he could sleep uninterrupted on his own. He wakes at every little noise. Eyes snapping open at the slightest click of a door down the hall. Hushed voices talking in the rooms on either side of his own. Twigs tapping against the window from an overzealous tree.

He stares at the blank space on the wall across from him. Exhausted. Drained.

Reaching into his desk drawer, he pushes back the weariness. Rubs at his eyes. Pulling an envelope from the drawer, he opens it. Removes the photo inside. His mother’s face smiles up at him. “It’s okay, Jack,” she’d told him the last day he saw her. “I’ll look after you.”

She’d hate how he turned out. A constant disappointment. A friendless loser.

Good for two things. Fighting and fucking.

John slides the photo into the envelope, stands up, and gets dressed. There’s a place he knows. Some people who deserve to get beaten. Who’d have no trouble beating John in return. He needs this.

And the thought of calling Alex...of having it all confirmed by someone he actually gives a damn about? He’d really rather not.

 

* * *

 

 

He finds someone who’ll put him in his place. Who’ll shove him against a wall and beat him. Who jeers cruelly into his ear while John thrashes. Who yelps when John strikes him back. Who isn’t expecting John to land hit after perfect hit. Who tries to flee, and leaves John feeling hollow and empty.

 _Should have let him fuck me,_ John thinks. Tension never once leaving his body. There’s no release in this.

He’s exhausted.

He just wants to get some sleep.

 

* * *

 

Thankfully,  _(unfortunately?)_ Alex texts John.

He wants to fuck.

John stares at the message.

 

_[Sweetie]_

_Come over?_

 

Sighing and reminding himself that he hasn’t seen Alex in days. Should probably make sure Alex is still in one piece. He musters all the energy he can, drags himself to Alex’s dorm room. Puts on a show. Becomes what Alex wants. Lets loose a little anger. Fucks Alex because that’s what he’s there for. Finishes and collapses at Alex’s side. Sleep calling for him. He reaches an arm out. Hugs Alex to his side.

He’s pushed off.  “Gotta go meet Burr,” Alex tells him, standing up. Not even a ‘thank you’ gracing his lips.

John knows he should say it now. Should tell Alex about this thing he’s doing with Lafayette. Should rub it in Alex’s face just like Alex rubbed it in his.

But Alex is up and out of the room. Dressed before John can wrap his head around it. Barely tossing a “let’s have dinner sometime,” over his shoulder before slamming the door shut. John lays sprawled on Alex’s bed.

He presses his hands to his face.  _What the hell am I doing?_

His phone chimes happily. Text message.

 

_[I Don’t Even Know]_

_Rock-climbing? Tomorrow?_

 

A URL link shows him the name of a sports club nearby. John’s never been.

“Sure,” he texts back.

It can’t be worse than this.

 

* * *

 

Lafayette wraps him in ropes. Clicks him with carabineers.  Whispers sweet, visceral, things into his ears as he powders John’s hands. “Ever done this before?” No. Lafayette grins.

“I’ll manage,” John proclaims.

He looks at the wall. He lied to Lafayette. He’s climbed before. Not like this. Not like actual rocks either. He’s been locked out. Kicked out. Sent out. And the only way back was to climb. He could climb anything. Anything at all. So long as there was a reason to get to the top.

Lafayette leans in close. “Shall we race then?” Always a competition with him.

It always works.

John nods. Winner fucks the loser. However they want.

John can still feel Alex beneath his hands. Still feel the stinging blow delivered by Alex’ careless words. He looks at the walls. And he’s off.

Purple and pink hand holds are waiting for John’s grip. Yellow slides are preparing for John’s toes. He scrambles. One hand after another. Relishes the bite. The sting. The stretch of his muscles as he gets his legs up and over. As he digs his nails in. Gets his hands into position.

He sees Lafayette down below. Timing his ascent with a stop watch. Belaying him with the utmost care and focus. If John fell now. He’d fall thirty feet straight down. The only thing saving him being a rope clipped to his waist. Lafayette’s hands carefully hoisting him into position.

John licks his lips. Keeps climbing. He gets to the top. Rings the bell. Waits a moment. Holding the wall and looking down once more. “Lean back,” Lafayette tells him. He’s smiling, but focused. Feet planted. Waiting for the weight to come.

John leans back. The rope slides only a little. Then he’s hoisted. Secure. Sitting on air. Feet just barely touching the wall. “Now jump,” Lafayette instructs. John jumps. Trusting. Lets Lafayette’s voice guide him home. The rope gives just a touch. Lets him slide down.

He jumps again. Lafayette releases more tension on the rope. And in moments - John’s feet are on the floor. Safely belayed. “ _Bon travail!_ ” Lips press against his head. He looks up.

“Your turn?” he asks.

Lafayette grins. “Have you ever belayed?” Of course he hasn’t. He shakes his head. “I will teach you.”

They swap out ropes. Change positions. Lafayette leans against his back. Arms in front of John’s body. Showing him how to tie knots. How to move his hands. How to hoist and pull. How to arrange. He doesn’t need to be showing John like this. Could be in front. Like a normal person.

But he does it anyway. Cuddling. Instructing. Tactile in all things. Occasionally he kisses John’s throat. Slides his teeth tantalizingly across John’s flesh. It’s all John can do to not ache into his touch.

Gym rules say John can’t belay unchaperoned or unsupervised until he passes a test. Lafayette goes up anyway. Climbs the wall fearlessly. Hardly caring that John is struggling to recall which way to move his hands. How to tighten up on the slack so Lafayette’s not in any danger.

It’s fine. Until Lafayette gets to the top. Rings the bell. Stopwatch says he beat John up. John knew he would. “You ready?” Lafayette asks him.

John plants his feet. Feels adrenaline rushing through him like a river pressing against the banks of its too narrow shores. Lafayette leans back. John feels the pressure on the rope. His heart’s in his chest. Lafayette jumps. Nothing. His feet land right where they’d departed. John’s frozen stiff. Can’t release the rope to save his life.

Lafayette’s trusting the wrong person for this. He’s put his faith in John’s hands. And John could drop him. Could fail to stop the rope from slipping free. Could release, and leave Lafayette a broken mess on the floor. Dead before anyone could touch him.

_Someone else needs to take the rope from me. Needs to get Lafayette down—_

“John,” he looks up. Lafayette’s meeting his eyes. Forty feet in the air.  “I trust you.”

He jumps. The rope slides through John’s hands. He stops it. Catches it. Keeps Lafayette from falling too far. Too fast.

Again.

Again.

The rope stings across John’s palms. Sharp and grounding. The pain edges on the plane of too much. But then—

Lafayette’s on the ground. His task is free. The Frenchman moves to him swiftly. Cups his hands around John’s face. Draws him up for a kiss. Lips press firmly against John’s own. Pressure building into something far more satisfying than John could have possibly imagined.

Fear and anxiety morphing into rushed elation. “Well done,” Lafayette breathes against his lips. Erotic and encouraging.

_Fuck me._

Lafayette grins. Unbuckles John’s harness. Lets it slide across his legs to the floor. In moments, they’re free to go. John’s shaking. Desire mounting. Need rising. Lafayette puts everything away. Takes John by the hand. Drags him to the locker room.

There’s a shower stall that’s big enough for them both. A handicapped stall.  _In a rock climbing center?_ John thinks absently.

Shower turns on, and so does John. He’s lifted up. Pressed against the tile walls. His teeth bite into Lafayette’s lips. His skin flushes under Lafayette’s touch.

They fuck hard and fast, and it’s perfect.

The coiled tension that’d been growing all week is starting to snap away. Disappear into the distance. Breaking down the center. John holds Lafayette to his body. Undulates in time with Lafayette’s thrusts. Gasps and chokes as Lafayette holds him fast. Makes him  _his._

John had Lafayette’s life in his hands today.

And he  _liked_ it.

 

* * *

 

 

Lafayette doesn’t shove him away when they’re done. Doesn’t make an excuse to leave. Instead, he brings John to bed each time. Clings to John’s body. Holds him down when he sleeps. Bracing him. Keeping him tight and close. “Mine,” Lafayette whispers sleepily into John’s ear. And it’s getting harder to ignore. Harder to fight back against.

John can feel it in his heart. Feel the kind of longing he only knew from years by Alex’s side. He wonders if this is what Alex wants. Security. Understanding. John doesn’t know why he couldn’t do this for Alex. Couldn’t be that person for Alex.

Why Alex went to Aaron. Why he clings to Aaron. Defends Aaron. Uses John to get off, then goes back to someone else who’s allowed to care for him. Allowed to treat him gentle. To caress him. To give him smiles. Hold his hand.

There are tears pressing at John’s eyes. His hands squeeze at Lafayette’s. He’s going to fuck this up. He’s going to fuck this up, and Lafayette’s going to leave.

Or not leave.

Maybe he’ll stay. Stay and use John like Alex does.

John clenches his eyes shut. Tries to go back to sleep.

He’s so pathetic, it hurts.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a kid getting picked on twenty feet ahead. John’s late for class. Had Lafayette drop him off too far away from his dorm. (The dorm is  _his_ space. And he doesn’t want it ruined. Not by another friend. Not yet). So John’s late, and he sees this kid getting picked on. He’s not a student on campus. Too young for that.

Unless he was one of those genius types.

But he’s young. And small. And he’s getting picked on by some punks who really could go to hell as far as John’s concerned. John thinks about it. Really thinks about it. Lets it all sink in. Then he marches right up to the first asshole.

“Back off,” he snaps. The kid stumbles behind John. Hiding. Alex used to stand there.  _(Alex isn’t here anymore.)_

“What’re  _you_ going to do about it?” The first asshole asks. Laughing. There’s three of them. They’re all bigger and broader than John. All menacing and fucktards. John feels adrenaline start to fuel him. He grins. Teeth poking out behind his lips.

“I’m going to make you,” he instigates. One of them throws a punch. John lets it hit him. Self defense. Can’t strike first. The blow sends him exactly one step back. He turns his head to look at the assailant. Feels his skin start to swell.

And grins.

Then throws a punch of his own. Solar plexus. Nose. Groin. John doesn’t fight fair. Doesn’t pull his shots. He hears pained groans. Bones breaking. Shouts of surprise. They grab for him. He smashes his skull into their teeth. They start shouting. He shuts them up. Someone pulls a knife, and he breaks their wrist.  _Fuck you very much._

It’s over and done with in less than two minutes. “Don’t you  _ever_ do that again!” John barks out. The punks scramble away.

When he turns, the kid’s still there. Staring up at him with wide eyes. Doe-like innocence completely washing over the child’s face. “What?” he asks.

“ _Thank you,”_ The kid replies. And then he’s hugging John around the waist. Tiny arms wrapping around John’s hips. Ear pressing to John’s ribs. John has no idea what to make of it. He just nods his head. Pats the boy on the head. And listens to the clock tolling out just how late he was.

 

* * *

 

 

Lafayette likes the story when John tells it. They’re at the one decent coffee joint in this dumb town. Lafayette’s sprawled in one of the chairs. Feet kicked up onto another. He’s smiling at John as John fumbles through the tale. Nods his head at all the right moments.

John hadn’t exactly intended to tell Lafayette what happened. Alex used to just roll his eyes whenever John mentioned he’d been a fight.  _Of course you were,_ Alex he’d sigh. But Alex isn’t here right now. And Lafayette is. And instead of treating John like a mildly tolerable cousin popping in for a visit and regaling family drama no one cares about, Lafayette seems actually interested.

He’d pressed a palm to John’s face the moment he saw him. Ran his thumb along John’s swollen lip. Bruised chin. “It’s fine,” John had excused. But Lafayette hadn’t let him leave at that. He’d trailed his fingers down John’s body until he brought John’s hands up for inspection. Insisted John tell him the truth.

So he had.

And Lafayette nodded. Ran his thumb over John’s knuckles. Hummed at the description of the attack. “You’re a hero,” Lafayette tells John. Grinning. “ _Mon héros._ ” John doesn’t speak French. But even he could translate that.

Scoffing, John shakes his head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

The bell on the door rings, and John glances up. Kitty Livingston. Ugh. Pulling his hand from Lafayette’s grasp, John cups his drink. It’s a tea that Lafayette had insisted he try. Good. Tasty. Not... _fruity_ per se, but. Something unique. Sweet and bold.

He can feel Kitty glaring at the side of his head. Can almost see her scowling from the corner of his eyes. Lafayette’s gaze travels to the left. Then back. He arches a brow. John flinches. Anger courses through him. Anger at Kitty. At himself. He just wants to sit here. Drink his drink. Talk to someone. But he won’t be able to now.

Kitty makes her way over. “Lafayette? Is that you?” she asks. Of course Kitty knows Lafayette. The man even turns to smile at her. And of course  _Lafayette_ knows Kitty.

 _“Mademoiselle_ Livingston, _Comment allez-vous?”_ French sounds perfect on Lafayette’s tongue. Like he’d been built to speak it and nothing else. John squeezes his Styrofoam cup tighter. He should learn how to speak it. Apparently everyone else does.

 _“Je vais bien!”_ Kitty oozes. She’s turning. Standing with her back to John. Cutting him out of the conversation entirely. Hackles raising, John’s tempted to just spill his tea right on her. Listen to her scream and shout. Stomp away to fix her clothes.

It’s not a nice thing to do.

John’s not a nice person.

Lafayette and Kitty go back and forth. Talking in French with flawless ease. Lafayette smiling the whole while. Minutes pass. John’s going to get up to leave. Any second now. Any second now he’ll have enough. He’ll leave.  _Fuck Kitty. Fuck Lafayette. And fuck all of France while we’re at it._

He starts to lean forward in his seat. But Lafayette’s shifting. Sitting up straighter. Moving so his legs are no longer sprawled over the chair next to him, but are now nudging their way onto John’s lap. Trapping him there. Toes nudge against John’s body. Tantalizing. Encouraging. John bites his lip.

“Ah, apologies,” Lafayette turns to meet John’s eyes. “We’ve been leaving you out.” He says it like it’s a surprise. Like he hadn’t been fully aware that John couldn’t participate. That Kitty wanted to get in the way. “Have you met John?” he asks Kitty sweetly. Accent thick and sultry. His toes tap against John’s hip.

Kitty glances his way. Disdain evident. Her lip curls. Then softens. By the time she’s looking back at Lafayette, her expression could almost be considered charming. “I think we have a class together,” she admits.

“Critical thinking,” John mutters. He digs his nails into the cardboard wrap on his cup. Scratches it a little.

“Anyway,” Kitty continues. Talking over him. John’s leaving indents on the cup. He should throw it away. It’s going cold. When he lifts it to his lips, he tries to drain it in one gulp. Leaves only the dregs. Lafayette’s toes keep prodding his side. If the Frenchman keeps it up, John’s going to sprain his ankle.  _That’ll show him._ “We’re having a little get together tonight,” Kitty oozes. “I’d love for you to attend.”

They didn’t have plans. Not really. When Lafayette invited him for coffee earlier, he’d suggested they could do something after. But they’d never specified. Never made it clear. It doesn’t matter. John mumbles a farewell. Moves to stand.

Lafayette’s hand is on his wrist faster than a viper. Coiling about the limb. Nails digging into his veins. John freezes. Lafayette’s not going to let him go. He’s still looking at Kitty, though. Seemingly snatching John’s wrist without so much as glancing his way. Perfectly in tune to where John was at all times. “Where’s the party?” Lafayette asks. Smiling politely. Genuinely.

Batting her eyes. Kitty leans forward. Smacks her lips at little. Lafayette’s eyes trail down to the shiny lip gloss she’s painted on. Flick up to her painted lids. His tongue peeks out. He smiles. “51 Elmhurst,” Kitty flirts. Tucking her hair behind her ear.

 _I don’t want to see this._ John seethes. But Lafayette’s just gripping his wrist harder. Damn near bruising the flesh.  _Fuck him._

Then, Lafayette’s lips spread wide. His grandest grin yet. He leans closer to Kitty. As if to tell her a secret. “Can I bring my boyfriend?” he asks, fluttering his eyes just like Kitty had only moments before. John’s blood runs cold. He’s frozen in place.

Nailed to the table. Locked down by invisible chains. He’s not going to be able to move. Not going to be able to breathe. He stares. Jaw unhinging.

To her credit, Kitty only looks somewhat startled. She flushes. Leans back just a little. “You have a boyfriend?” she asks. Then, seemingly unable to help herself, asks — “You’re  _gay?”_

“Americans and your  _labels,”_ Lafayette huffs. “I have a boyfriend.”

“I—I mean, sure. Of course. I’d love to meet him.” She’s doing her best to be polite. Even caught off guard. Flat-footed.

Lafayette’s squeezing John’s wrist so hard John can feel sharp slashes of pain going up it. If he keeps it up, Lafayette’s going to dislocate something. Press a bone out of alignment. “You’ve already met.”

Several things happen too fast for John to understand. Lafayette pulls him across the table. John loses his balance. Braces himself as he’s jerked forward. Lips press against his. Kitty recoils. His eyes close. Lafayette’s cupping his cheek. John’s heart leaps.  _Painfully._ His chest aches in violent retribution. Reminding him that hearts are not  _meant_ to be doing things like that. Thank you very much.

“ _John?”_ Kitty asks. Lafayette pulls away. His grip on John’s wrist isn’t as strong. His thumb rubs against John’s skin. A tender apology that sends warm shivers up and down John’s spine. “Wha-why are you dating  _John?”_ It’s a perfectly reasonable question.

Even Alex didn’t want John. And yet. Here Lafayette was, proclaiming their...relationship...publically. Rubbing his wrist in a way that reeked of adoration to anyone else, but sent sharp shivers of pleasure pain rocketing through John’s body. “Because he understands me in a way no one else can or will.” Heat pooled in John’s stomach. Lafayette was smiling at him. “Now…” he didn’t so much as look at Kitty. Dark eyes locked on John’s. John’s alone.  _(The center of his universe)._ “Do you want to go to Kitty’s party, mon amour?”

John’s cheeks flush. His head spins. Lafayette’s grip on his wrist tighten. Release. His smile grows. John’s not sure what he’s supposed to say or do anymore. But he knows what he doesn’t want. And he knows enough French to say, confidently. “ _Non.”_

“Then it seems to the party, we will not go.” Lafayette pulls John up to stand. Tugs him so he knocks into Kitty’s shoulder. Neither apologize. She stumbles back. Still staring between them numbly. In shock. “It was so lovely to speak with you _Mademoiselle._ Another time?” He doesn’t wait for her response. Just drags John after him.

Leaving Kitty’s mouth on the floor as they step into the cold winter air.

John has only been in love with one person in his entire life.

It’s not Lafayette.

But the second person might be.

 


	3. Date Three

Alex needs to go shopping. He texts John. Asks for a ride.

The message comes in while John’s pinning Lafayette to the bed. Hands wrapped tight around Lafayette’s wrists. Teeth sinking into Lafayette’s throat. Listening as Lafayette hums happily in response. Groans something in French that sounds absolutely filthy.  _“Baises moi…_ fuck me. _”_

John’s working up to that. He is. “You going to fight me if I let you go?” John growls into Lafayette’s ear. “Or you gonna let me take you? Make you mine?” Lafayette chuckles. Dark and low.

_“Je suis déjà le vôtre, et vous êtes le mien.”_

John shoves a hand between Lafayette’s legs. Digs his fingertips against the heated flesh he finds all too alluring. “I don’t  _speak fucking French.”_ He pushes his fingers in. Lafayette groans. Bucks his hips.

John’s cell phone buzzes again. He doesn’t care. Not with Lafayette beneath him. Not with Lafayette’s body sprawled out so invitingly. Not with his fingers pistoning inside Lafayette’s ass. Lafayette groans beautifully. Sounds sending shivers down John’s spine.

There’s a sharp motion. Swift and flawless. Even with John’s fingers still deep within him, Lafayette manages to flip their positions. Grinding down on John’s hand as he braces himself over John’s body. “Mine,” Lafayette growls. “ _You’re mine.”_ There’s a flurry of motion. A condom rolled into place. Then. Lafayette dropping himself down.

John’s head flies back. He moans. Tight heat wrapped all around him. A hand at his throat chokes off his breath. He gasps. Lafayette squeezes down. Cutting off his inhale. White light crosses John’s vision. Harsh fingers twist John’s nipples. He’s going to pass out. He’s going to pass out. He’s going to—

The hand loosens. John pulls in breath. Is choked once more. He slams his hips as high as they will go. Lafayette grinds down even rougher. It’s perfect. It’s perfect it’s—

John comes.

He can’t breathe. His thoughts go blissfully silent. A sharp screeching peels through his ears. Ringing loud and true. He can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything. Save lay there. Pass out. Lafayette’s lips press against his.

The hand’s off his throat. It’s too late. John’s falling unconscious. Even as his lungs draw breath and Lafayette smiles against his lips.

 

* * *

 

 

Lafayette wakes him up. Gently encourages him to get out of bed. “Your little Alex awaits,” Lafayette teases. Kissing John’s face as he strokes John’s sides. John doesn’t want to see Alex. Doesn’t want to fight or fuck him. Doesn’t want to pretend. Just wants to lay here. Lay here in bed and wrap his arms around Lafayette’s body. Go to sleep. Never move again.

“Get up for me,” Lafayette whispers against his damp hair. John hums. Tries to remember why his hair’s damp to begin with. He hopes it’s not semen. He’s pretty sure it’s semen.  _Damn it Laf…_

Lafayette’s murmuring to him. A sweet litany of French. But John hasn’t mastered the language in the past ten minutes. Hasn’t got a clue what Lafayette said. But it sounds nice. Sounds like something someone nice would say. He sags into Lafayette’s touch. “Mon amour,” and oh. John likes that. Likes that a lot. He smiles and leans into the gentle hands trailing across his flesh.

Maybe this is what Alex wants. What he never gave him. But he would have. Would have in a heartbeat if he’d been allowed.  _But I’m not his mother,_ John reminds himself savagely.  _And I’m not allowed to care._

“Mon amour...mon amour…” Lafayette slides his arms under John’s body. Cuddles him as he carries him to the edge of the bed. Hoisting John upright and forcing him to rise. “Come, we will go shopping, and then after, we will watch your Animal Planet.” Lips press against John’s temple.

He gets up. Stumbles to the shower. Ducks his head under the spray to wash off. He’s still shaky. Still a bit off center. He yawns. Exhaustion clinging to him. Lafayette passes him his phone after he manages to drag on some clothes. John squints at the screen. Sees Alex’s messages.

“Sweetie?” Lafayette teases. John presses his lips tight. It’s been a long time since he’s been allowed to say that to Alex. The last time…

_If I wanted you to treat me nice, I would have found a girl._

He changes the contact. Deletes what’s written and instead writes ‘Hamilton.’ It’s cold and unfeeling. John feels like he’s closed another door. It doesn’t matter. Alex’ll never know. And he’s the only one who’d ever care.

 

* * *

 

They meet Alex by the Administration Building. He’s bouncing on his toes. Probably wants a release. John’s too tired to muster up enough energy for that. He’s still sagging against the car door. Lafayette got him up and mobile, but he’s not quite ready to interact with the world. Still riding the post-coital high of whatever magic Lafayette had woven over his body.

Lafayette’s holding his hand across the console. Stroking his knuckles as Alex blinks at the car and slowly approaches. His lips turning down. It occurs to John that neither had told Alex Lafayette would be coming. Alex had texted John and... well. Fuck Alex if he doesn’t like it. John’s not apologizing.

John turns to look at his friend as Alex slides into the backseat of Lafayette’s car. Shifting his weight around. Greets with a vague, “Hey." John makes a half-hearted attempt to pull his hand back, but Lafayette doesn’t let it go.

Instead, the Frenchman joyously proclaims, “Little Alex! We’re so happy to see you!”

Alex is staring at their hands. Blinking at them in open confusion. And shit, John never told Alex about Lafayette. Last Alex knew, John and Lafayette met at a coffee shop. And that’s it. It’s...been a busy few weeks. Months. With everything. Really. John’s not sure what he’s supposed to be saying at the moment.

Apparently, he doesn’t need to say anything. Lafayette keeps talking. Going on and on about classes, about some new food he’s tried, about this new show he’s been interested in. Alex stops staring at their hands, and just watches the side of Lafayette’s face. Shock never quite leaving completely, but at least not  _as_ blatantly obvious.

They get to Wegmans relatively quickly. John’s hand’s released and he stumbles out of the car. Head rush. His vision goes dark and then present far too fast. He’s swaying a little. Alex’s grabs his arm. Steadies him. Almost looks concerned.

John can’t remember the last time Alex showed concern for him. He smiles. “I’m okay,” he manages to say. Alex nods. Flicks his eyes towards Lafayette. He’s going to ask something. And John wishes he wouldn’t. Wishes he’d just leave it. Can’t they pretend nothing’s changed?

Can’t they just pretend that Alex knowing isn’t going to grind everything to a halt? (Because he’s right. He knows he’s right. Alex won’t have sex with him at all if he finds out John’s got...someone. And even if Lafayette wouldn’t care if John continued fucking Alex...Alex would. And John’s chest physically  _aches_ at the thought of hurting Alex. Over and over. Never stopping. Because that’s all Alex wants from him. And it’s too much. And it’s not enough.)

Alex releases John’s arm. Takes a step back. Lafayette presses himself to John’s spine. Comforting weight grounding him to the floor. Filling the chasm Alex leaves. Lips press against the side of John’s head. “Ready?” Lafayette asks. Oblivious to the break that’s formed. Louder than the crack in the bell. Tectonic plates shifting. Never to align once more.

“Ready,” Alex agrees. They start walking. Lafayette’s arms sliding from John’s body.

And even though he’s right there with them the whole way. John knows.

He’s being left behind.

  

* * *

 

 

Alex gives Lafayette the shovel talk.

John retracts any kind sentiment he ever felt towards Alex.

Alex can fuck right off. If John’s not allowed to care about Alex, then Alex can stop pretending to be  _John’s_ mother too.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the week goes by relatively quickly. John finding himself getting picked up and brought over to Lafayette’s house almost every night. John’s bruises have started to fade and he’s not as sore or tired as he was earlier in the week.

By the time Friday comes around again, he’s ready to fight once more. Lafayette grins and takes him through some quick instructional routines. Holds John’s hands as he makes them into a firmer punch. Leads and follows. Arranging John’s limbs and getting him into proper position.

The exercise is brutal. Intense. But...sweet? John’s muscles ache with each passing minute. His body burns from a fire too hot. Skin tingling. Lafayette switches frequently. One moment he’s teaching John to fight. The next, he’s pining John down. The next, he’s biting John’s skin. Kissing his face. Palming his dick.

“Mine,” whispered possessively in John’s ear. John fights and fights. Lets the emotions drain out of him. Lafayette owns him. Owns him completely. And John’s stopped fighting. Has let the panic and fear start sliding away.

He needs to  _let_  it slide away. Or else it’ll be too much. He’ll combust. He can’t do that. Can’t fall apart. He  _needs_.

He needs.

Lafayette arches his back. Grinds down on top of him. “Mon amour…”

_Love._

All you need is love.

John closes his eyes. Prays he isn’t making a mistake.

And lets himself fall.

 

* * *

 

 

Things shift all around him. John only notices the differences after he stumbles onto a routine. A kind of give and take. Lafayette meets him for coffee. Meets him for lunch. They’ll have dinner every other day.

They fight each other. They have sex with each other. And then the in-between...the part that John’s never certain about...it rises up and takes over, and John’s a fish at sea. Moving with the current. Hardly able to change his mind if he wanted to.

Lafayette discovers his dorm room. He wanders in and looks around. Nodding and smiling and not mentioning John’s stuffed turtle. He says nothing when John ushers them out. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t pry. He hums when he sees John’s keys though. “Alex has the same band,” he says. Motioning to the clip John keeps his dorm key on.

“He’s got a copy of mine,” John admits quietly. He waits for Lafayette to ask for one to. To complain. To say something. Anything.

He says: “Lucky Alex,” and kisses John’s brow. Takes John home, and doesn’t let John think about anything at all.

 

* * *

 

 

Alex asks to see him. John stares at the phone in his hand. He'd been so sure Alex would stop once he knew about Lafayette. But apparently he hasn't. It doesn't matter. Alex wants John to come around again. Hurt him in ways John's lost interest for.

John feels tension growing in the back of his head. He’s tired. All of a sudden. He’s just...tired. He thinks of Lafayette and is just so...exhausted. He makes his way to Alex’s dorm anyway. Goes through the motions. Reaches to take Alex’s arm. Pulls him in for a kiss.

Alex flinches. Pulls back. John’s left frozen. Staring. Tears well up in Alex’s eyes. John’s heart starts pounding in his chest. His hand’s still raised in the air from where Alex had jerked away from him.

His friend. His best friend. His first friend, starts sobbing. Shoulders hitching. His head leans forward, but when John goes to touch him — Alex jerks away.

Something’s happened. Something’s gone terribly wrong.

And Aaron Burr was the last person Alex gave himself over to.

Later, Lafayette listens as John tells him about Aaron. About what he needs to do. He agrees to help John. And together, they collect Aaron from school.

It's a mistake. And if John could go back in time, he'd punch himself in the face. Beat him bloody and leave him in a ditch somewhere. Because all he's done is elongate a process that could have stopped so much sooner. He's such a fucking idiot. And the end result of his stupidity?

Confirmation that once and for all, Alex hates him.

He yells at John for kidnapping Aaron. Tells him he’s stupid. Careless. And then, Alex isn’t saying anything at all. Because they’re no longer talking  _at all._

John tries to remember that he’s not supposed to care. But he does. And it hurts. It hurts worse than anything John could ever dream of. He wishes he could make it all stop.

When text messages go unanswered. Calls go ignored. Attempts to speak in person are met with a cold shoulder. An angry glare. A furious look. Harsh words.  _You never do anything right. Stop thinking with your fists for one minute!_

Lafayette is there.

And when Alex leaves, it’s Lafayette who pulls him close. Whispers that it’s going to be okay. That Alex will forgive him. That he shouldn’t worry. That it’ll be okay. Promise.

So John turns. And faces his new reality. There is no more Alex and John.

But there is John and Lafayette. The weeks pass. New weekends come. And John starts to realize, things will never be the same.

 

* * *

 

 

Change like death, comes in sounders of three. 

 

* * *

 

 Lafayette herds John out of bed. Fetches him a mug of tea. Sets it in front of John and starts getting pans and flour. Salt. Milk. Eggs. Butter. Lafayette flicks on his stereo. French music starts up, and John tilts his head. Listening to the singer prattle on. It’s not...bad. It’s even kind of nice to wake up to. “What is it?” he asks.

“Crepes,” Lafayette replies. Oh. That’s the food. John shakes his head.

Clarifies, “The music.”

“Edith Piaf! John, mon amour, you do not recognize Edith Piaf?” Lafayette’s face is twisted in dramatic horror.

John shakes his head. “Is she famous?”

The look that Lafayette gives him is truly tragic. His face is dragging downwards. His eyes drooping at the corners. He sniffs his nose. Settles his mixing bowl to the side. Reaches down for John’s hands and pulls him to his feet. With one hand he turns the stereo on so it’s even louder than it was before. Skips to his preferred song.

Starts to hum. Brass section and strings softly introducing the singer. An old 40s kind of sound that John  _does_ vaguely recognize. Maybe from one of his mother’s old films. When he starts to sing, Lafayette’s voice is just a little flat. Not quite in tune. But he fixes it immediately. Gets into it. Swings his hips as he pulls John about the kitchen.    _“Des yeux qui font baisser les miens,”_ he starts.

John’s feet stumble beneath him. Caught off guard by the sudden swaying. The steps tingling something from the far distant past. Memories sliding into place. He’s not sure how he feels about being led around the kitchen in an impromptu foxtrot.

Lafayette’s pretty confident with his steps, though. He sings with impassioned excitement. Stops at the stereo. “Non, non, dis one ees better,” his action is unbelievably thick. The next song starts. Faster. More impressive. John’s still standing in Lafayette’s arms. Eyes bugging wide.

Lafayette’s stepping forward. Moving him around. Carefully avoiding the kitchen table and instead sweeping John to the left and right.

_“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien. Ni le bien, qu’on m’a fait, ni le mal. Tout ça m’est bien égal.”_

“What’s it mean?” John asks. The steps are coming to him now. He used to do this. Dance to old music with his mother. Let her teach him how to move and how to step. It’s familiar. Pulls something up from the ether of the cosmos. Makes him smile.

Realize he enjoys this.

They’re stepping in perfect unison. A physical harmony in of themselves. Complementing the music. Being a part of it. The chorus comes around. Starts again. This time, Lafayette translates for him. “No, nothing at all, No! I don't feel sorry about anything at all. Not the good things people have done to me, Not the bad things, it's all the same to me.”

Oh.

John likes that.

Likes that a lot.

The song ends, and Lafayette translates the end. “Because my life, my joys. Today, they begin with you.”

He kisses John’s lips. Settles him back into his chair. Smiles fondly. “I’m going to make you a playlist,” he declares. “But first. Crepes?”

John nods. The next song starts on the soundtrack. He doesn’t know what Edith Piaf is saying. But he’s certain that he likes it too.

 

* * *

 

 

After crepes, which are perfect _, (of course),_ Lafayette shuffles John to the car. “Where are we going?” John asks. He hadn’t asked last time, and they’d ended up hiking. Which is fine. He guesses. But it’s kind of cold today, and he doesn’t really feel like hiking at the moment.

“Have you been to Funway?” The name sounds foreign and awkward on Lafayette’s lilting tongue. But John recognizes it anyway. It’s one of those kids centers near town. Arcade crap lines the walls. There’s a mini-golf course. A few other things. The rock climbing center’s not too far from it. They passed it on their way over last week.

“Why do you want to go there?” John asks. He can’t think of one reason Lafayette would want to go. It all seems a little too childish for him.

But Lafayette is impervious to his disillusionment. He rolls his eyes. And says something about Second-Saturday of the Month specials. Which means next to nothing to John. They reach Funway in only half an hour, and then from there Lafayette’s leading him in.

He pays for their excursion at the ticket counter, waving off John’s attempt at grabbing his wallet. It makes John pause. Something about this digging at the back of his head. It’s on the tip of his tongue...something he wants to say, but can’t get out properly.

Whatever it was, he loses it the moment Lafayette’s hand wraps around his wrist. Dragging him forward. Lafayette’s very familiar with Funway’s layout. Easily traversing its neon halls and it’s loudly beeping machines. There’s a room in the back that’s surrounded by sound barriers.

John squints at it. Frowning and reading the label. “Bumper cars?” he asks. Lafayette grins savagely. Excitement starts to build in John’s chest. The last time he’d been in a bumper car, he’d been eight years old. His mother had buckled him in. Kissed his cheek.  _Bet I can get you!_

“Is fun, non?” Lafayette asks knowingly. John feels himself start bouncing on his toes. He looks around the Funway. Assessing it for new possibilities. Laser tag. Skeeball. Roller skating. He hasn’t done any of this in years. And if they’re going to be kids about it…

“Bet I can get you,” he echoes from years past. Lafayette snorts smugly.

“Of course you will, mon amour. Of course.”

They race inside.

John gets there first. Flashes his wristband at the attendant and is shuffled to the nearest car available. He pulls out on the track and slams his foot on the pedal. Electricity sparks above him and below. The car zooms forward. Six miles an hour but still feeling fast as tweens and teens slide by in all directions. Lafayette’s on the course less than a minute later.

John turns his head, assesses his direction, then slams his car into the boy next to him. The kid yelps, goes spiraling about, and neatly comes to a stop right in front of Lafayette’s green attack vehicle. John only feels  _slightly_ bad as Lafayette crashes into the kid. But the feeling's fleeting. It gives him time to circle around and get behind Lafayette.

The cars don’t reverse well. If at all. Lafayette’s in a bit of a jam as the kid struggles to maneuver his vehicle and only makes it worse. John wastes no time in banging into Lafayette’s car, easily taking the recoil and spinning the wheel so he was back on track again. Zooming about.

Slam into one little girl. Smack into a couple of teenagers. John zooms about the circuit, and his only warning of things to come came from his sudden realization that he’d lost track of the other man. “HAH!” Lafayette jeers as he bangs into John’s ass. The car waivers then spins. “Allons-y!”

The madman keeps on his circuit, zipping away and knocking into anyone who dared to argue. John reorients himself. Waits. Watches as Lafayette goes bang, bang, bang into a few unsuspecting brats. Then -  _zoom!_ He shoots forward, T-boning Lafayette’s car. They bump against each other. Spinning this way and that.

Lafayette’s laughing, and John can’t stop himself from joining in. Whoops of delight raise up. They race the circuit again and again. When their turn stops, John leaps out and rushes to get back on line. Lafayette at his heels. “Most laps?” John asks, breathless. Lafayette nods.

“You’re on.”

They try to get the same cars. For consistency's sake. Laughing and joking as they hurry into position. The rules start forming easily enough. They can wail into each other as much as possible, but a full lap is defined by their starting points. John leads the first two rounds. Lafayette gets the third.

John’s buzzing. New rules new game. Tricks. Turns. Have to complete a 360. Need to knock out at least two cars. Need to do a high-five over the medium. Lafayette’s indulging him. He’d wanted to come here because he wanted to do bumper cars. John’s just tagging along. But he’s nodding. Happily listening as John goes on and on and on. Not stopping or interrupting. Gives suggestions. A lap without hitting  _anyone._ Which is far harder than John thought it’d be. But just as worth it.

They go back out. A group of young kids gathers in the bumper cars and some teenagers are targeting them directly. John wouldn’t normally care, it’s the nature of the game after all, but it’s turning malicious. And one girl looks like she’s going to start to cry.

“Hey, I got yellow!” he yells to Lafayette, who blinks at him, then changes view. Lafayette’s expression turns dark and savage, and from then on, it’s a matter of survival.

They drive with their feet slammed onto the pedals. Spinning this way and that. Knocking the teenagers away from their young prey before they could even land a hit. The kids can knock into each other in good fun all they want, but anyone over sixteen? Fair game.

John’s plan of attack is executed swiftly. They take turns. Lafayette sitting out one round so that someone’s always on deck. In the next turn over. Cheering whichever driver that's on the road. And they’re meticulous. Banging into the assholes and beating them until they collectively let up on the younger crowd and leave the bumper cars alone.

Feeling vindicated and just, John acquiesces when Lafayette offers lunch. They leave the bumper car circuit and march down to the food court. And Jesus — how big is this place? Doesn’t seem to matter. John starts talking. Eagerly collecting his burger and fries and sliding into the seat across from Lafayette.

He’s looking around. Taking inventory. Possibilities. So many options. So little time. He’s never even tried half this stuff. And now, he can’t keep from rambling stupidly. “Did you see that one hit? And that kid? In the hat?”

Lafayette nods. Smiling broadly. Agreeing! Even. “Yes, you certainly did hit quite nicely,” he leers. And John’s flushing and pleased all in one.

“We should bring Alex next time,” John says unthinkingly. Flinches at the reminder that Alex isn’t talking to him anymore. Braces for the fact he may never talk to him again. But...maybe he would? If...if they could do something fun? Maybe this would help fix things? Somehow? It’s not fucking or fighting...but it’s not mothering either. This is spending time. Having fun. Like they used to...before. Before Burr and Madison. Before college.

“Did he and Aaron breakup?” Lafayette asks. The question draws John up short.  He frowns. Turns to look at the Frenchman in confusion. Of course they hadn’t. And Lafayette being purposefully obtuse wasn’t helping matters. “Only, you asked him to join our date," Lafayette continues heedlessly. "I’d assumed you mean so he could join us.” The Frenchman waggles his brows. Gives the insinuation more depth. John’s flat footed.

That thing that’d been on the tip of his tongue? The question he wanted to ask when they arrived? It’s slamming into his brain like a ton of bricks. Knocking down barriers and doors. Bursting through windows. Shattering glass in all directions.

John feels his tongue flop uselessly in his mouth. His jaw dropping. He snaps his teeth together with a click. “Is this a date?” he asks. Burger juice is soaking into his fingers. He’s squeezing too hard. A plop of ketchup and pickles hits his plate.

Lafayette is distinctly unimpressed. He settles his fry back onto his plate. Halting its progression to his mouth. Delicately retrieving a napkin, he sops up old grease and salt from his fingers. His lips are twisting into a frown.

The disappointment not once losing its significance. John can feel his heart pounding in his ears. He draws breath. Gasps. Shakes his head. “And-and-and the hike? Rock climbing? Those were dates?”

Lafayette said they were boyfriends in public. To scare of Kitty. That Lafayette  _actually_ thought they were dating never even crossed John's mind. The title serving as a placeholder for something else. [I Don’t Even Know] still marked Lafayette’s contact in John’s phone. His Facebook still said ‘single.’

John can’t breathe. He’s going to be sick. The burger isn’t settling right.

He’s been sleeping at Lafayette’s house. Having sex. Eating breakfast. Dancing in the kitchen. That’s...that’s date stuff too isn’t it? Or, maybe not date stuff. But that’s. That’s relationship stuff. That’s. That’s domestic. That’s—

“Are we dating?” his voice cracks worse than it did in Mrs. Dolacky’s ninth grade English class. He flinches.

_Oh. My. God._

_I’m dating._  Has been for...one? two months? How long has it been? The weeks have slipped by. Faster and faster than ever before. When did they first fight? John’s head is spinning.

Lafayette reaches for his diet coke. Places the straw between his lips. And slurps very loudly.

  
_Obviously._

 


	4. Date Interrupted

[I Don’t Even Know]

 The contact is staring up at John. Mocking him. He’s lying flat on his back. Locked in his dorm room. And he has no idea what he wants to say. Or do. He groans. Presses one hand to his face. Wonders how the hell he ended up like this. Here.

[I Don’t Even Know]’s a ridiculous thing to call _his boyfriend._

 But.

Lafayette had driven him back to the dorm after their...date. Their _third_ date. And John had been grateful. Running away as fast as he could. Barely glancing back. Lafayette’s probably upset. When someone runs away after they find out they’ve been dating someone else...it doesn’t exactly pass the best message.

 And it’s not the _dating_ that’s got John concerned. If dating Lafayette means he can be with him always. Can talk to him. Can no longer be alone. Can... keep fighting. And hiking. And. Climbing. Bumper cars and dancing. Music. If all that means they’re dating, then that’s good. That’s really good.

 That’s fantastic.

 He’s game.

 Except. John has no idea how to reciprocate. Lafayette’s led all of them so far. Arranging everything. He’s done each one perfectly. John’s had more fun on those three excursions than he’s had doing literally _anything else_ this year. This decade.

 He’d had more fun dancing in Lafayette’s kitchen than the day one of his father’s bastards hit a baseball into the man’s car and broke a window. And that’d been a _hilarious_ day.

[I Don’t Even Know]

 The name’s terrible. Really. What had he been thinking? Clearly. He hadn’t been. But. He’s not sure if he should change it. Isn’t sure what he should even change it to. Their relationship barely existed before now. And it could be over already. At least in his head.

 “Fuck this,” John mutters. Tapping the name. He starts clicking away. Sounding out the words as he types. “I don’t want to be friends.” He hits send. Then. “But I like being your boyfriend.”

Dot-dot-dot appears in a speech bubble by [I Don’t Even Know]’s name. Typing. Typing. Typing. John waits. Holds his breath, and tries not to pass out. His stomach has been rolling since they’d been bumper-carring. And now he’s not sure he can hold it back anymore.

 

_[I Don’t Even Know]_

_I, Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette, hereby request the honor of your presence at Montcalm Restaurant at 7:00pm next Saturday evening. For our first official date._

 

John stares at the response. Snorts. Types back. _Your name is Gilbert?_

_[I Don’t Even Know]_

_Would you date a Gilbert?_

 

John pauses. Thinks about it. Responds: _I’d date you._

 

_[I Don’t Even Know]_

_:D See you Saturday?_

 

He types back - _Yes._  

Okay. Case closed. They’re Officially Dating™

John has no idea what to do.

 

* * *

 

 

Struck by a sudden lack of creativity: [Gilbert] replaces [I Don’t Even Know]. He’ll probably change it later. Because calling Lafayette ‘Gilbert’ still feels weird. He doesn’t like it at all. But that’s the least of his worries.

Setting his phone to the side, he pulls up the restaurant on his laptop. Blinks at the prices. The pictures. The location. Something outside of town. It’s a long drive. And it’s a _nice_ restaurant. With a dress code. With a Matire’D. It’s all in French, and John bites his lips. He’s going to make an ass out of himself. He’s going to look so foolish. 

He snatches his phone back. Goes to the S contacts to click on Sweetie’s hot link. Stutters. It’s not there. Oh. He scrolls back up to H. Clicks on “Hamilton”, then texts:

 

_What do you wear on dates?_

 

No response.

 His foot taps impatiently on the ground. Knee jostling as he waits. But there’s nothing. John glares at it. Fully aware that no reply likely means Alex is high somewhere. High, or with Aaron. Pointedly ignoring John. Still. The rift hasn’t healed. Won’t at this rate.

Fine. Whatever. He didn’t need Alex anyway. Didn’t want him around. He’s a big boy, and he can do this himself. He can.

Besides, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and John’s got a million to spare. Fuck Alex if he couldn’t see that for himself. Or. _Don’t_ fuck him all things considered.

 Typing his question into google, he hits enter. “4 Ways to Make It a Great First Date” by Rori Raye appears at the top of the list.

Number One: Don’t have a dinner date. Instead “Pick a place that will let you walk and talk at the same time, and that will provide readily available talking points.  It’s the connection that’s important, not what you do.” John bites his lip. Pick places like a hiking trail? Where they talked and laughed for hours as they raced each other to the view point? Rock climbing? Where they had each other’s lives in their hands? Bumper cars? Where they did nothing but tease and play for hours until John had a freak out?

 Great. Well. Apparently John’s so out of touch with reality, that nothing except a fancy dinner registers as a date.

 Angrily, he descends to step two.

“If you’re worried you might not say the right things to him, don’t.  Connecting with a man is not about cerebral conversation and impressing him with your wit.  It’s about letting him see your feeling, feminine self in all its glory.”

John hits the back button so fast he’s half certain he might have dislodged it from his keyboard. Okay. That one might not be for him. Taking a deep breath. He tried again. Types in “Gay first dates” instead. Clicks a link that seems promising.

 The first few rules seem to surround meeting someone for the first time. He skips them. Number four has his face flushing though. “Even though gay men love to label everyone; they despise being labeled. So whether he's a Bear, Twink, Twunk, Cub, Daddy, Dilf, Otter, Chub, Gym Rat, Gym Bunny, or any of the other zillion names we give one another, only address him in generic terms, like handsome, sexy, hung.”

 And number Five immediately disregards number Four. “If you're over thirty and at least four years older than your date, don't be surprised if he calls you Daddy. Take it as a compliment; do not take it as a reason to pick up the check.”

 John gets a sudden image of his own father discovering his sexuality. Of the fist that wouldn’t stop no matter how hard John tried to get away. Of the vitriolic words that rained down on his head. Of Alex finding him bleeding almost four hours later. Dragging him into his apartment and telling him it was going to be okay.

  _Fuck_ number five and everything it says.

 Lafayette’s not over thirty. But he is older than John. And if this is a thing? A thing that might happen? John would happily inform Lafayette that he’d _never_ date anyone named Gilbert. Ever.

 He’s shaking by the time he gets to number eight, informing him that he’s going to be sleeping with everyone in Lafayette’s orgy.

 Number ten informs him that he needs to have “an immediate answer for "Do you want to get married?" and "How many kids would you like to have?"’ otherwise “the date has just ended; don't even bother to take your coat off.”

 Number eleven and twelve tell him not to have an opinion about anything. 

Thirteen cautions him on the color of his underwear.

Fourteen reminds him to check for HIV status, which John hasn’t done at all. And he thinks he’s going to get sick if he keeps going.

 Fifteen tells him nothing.

 Sixteen encourages at least 30 minutes of foreplay. Somehow John doubts punching each other in the face counts as foreplay.

 And seventeen tells him that this article is gospel and no one cares about his abusive childhood or background.

 John turns off his computer. Sets it to the side. And is promptly sick all over the floor. He leans over the side of his bed. Coughing and gagging. He gets only a brief warning before his head swims and he realizes “Oh, I don’t feel good,” and passes out.

 He’ll clean up the mess in the morning.

 

* * *

 

 

John wakes up. His head is screaming at him. The smell of vomit is dragging him about in circles. He manages to get out of bed. Clean it up. Then crawl back under the covers. He’s asleep before he can think about anything else. Vaguely he realizes he might actually be sick.

He doesn’t like being sick.

 Time loses its meaning. John tosses and turns in his bed. Skin hot and cold in equal measures. He fumbles under the covers for _Elle_ the turtle. Hugs it to his chest as he hears the phantom sounds of brakes screeching. Glass shattering. _“John!”_  It’s a nightmare. A vision. It never happened. He’d never been there. But the image persists. Blood and darkness. Rain and liquor. 

And when he does wake, it’s the coughs that drag him to the surface. Each breath, rubbing like sandpaper. Each swallow, torn by razor blades. His clock tells him time is passing. Nights and mornings and things in between, but he’s too sick to get up. And he has no intention of dragging himself to class Monday morning. He carries himself to the bathroom.

Coughs and gags. Contaminates it so he’s sure someone else will get his cold when they use it. He apologizes internally. Stumbles back to his room. Folds himself on the mattress. Head digging into his pillow. Shaking badly. 

 _“Don’t feel good mama…”_ he’d whispered once. 

She answered him with a litany of sweet words, _“I’ll come get you. Take you home. I love you.”_ And he never saw her again.

John scrambles for his desk drawer. Fumbles for the flu medicine he bought in August. Downs it and a few Chewy bars. Falls asleep before he can think to do anything else. He doesn’t usually get sick, but when he does — nothing in the world can make it better.

His mother used to wrap him up in her arms. Pet his hair and rub his back. John longs for Lafayette in a way he didn’t expect to. He never pined for Alex like this. Yet here he is. Hoping. Praying. Wishing.

He drags himself to the dorm’s communal kitchen. Fumbles with the kettle until he can get some hot water. Coughing into his shoulder the whole time. Kitty Livingston is in the common room and she huffs loudly. Stalks off.

He hopes she catches the flu.

Hot water made, he pours himself a mug full, then stumbles back to his room. He leans on the walls. Hugs a blanket around his shoulder. Teeth chattering as he finally gets inside. He stole a few tea-bags from Lafayette’s house weeks ago. Uses one now.

His phone buzzes just as he finishes swallowing a few more pills. There’s a shit-ton of voicemails and texts. The most recent is from— Alex. John struggles to remember. Can’t. Are they talking again? Is this new?

 

_[Hamilton]_

_How bad?_

 

Alex always knew when John went silent it was for a reason. John almost was grateful to see it. To see that after all this time, he still understood intuitively what was spiraling around John’s skull. Cared even. But. That being said. Gratitude fell by the wayside months ago. And Alex is the last person on the planet John wants to remember his mother with. Wants to see when he’s like this. Wants to feel beholden to after being ignored for so long.

 _I’m fine._ He texts back.

He falls asleep again. Leaving the tea to steep on its own.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up to fingers trailing across his face. He jumps. Glass shattering in his ears. _“John!”_ Tires screeching. Scrambling, John’s back slammed against the wall. Someone’s talking. The words don’t make sense. Don’t register. John coughs. Sneezes. Snot goes everywhere. A tissue box appears before him and he takes it. Wipes himself off before looking up to tell Alex to back off. He didn’t want him here.

Only.

 It’s not Alex.

 It’s Lafayette. And John is too tired to think. Too tired to complain. He sags against the wall. Pulls his left knee up. Bracing himself. His lungs ache. His nose won’t stop plugging and draining like the world’s worst pipe.

Lafayette stares down at him. Quiet. Contemplative. Considering. He hums thoughtfully, then reaches for John. John’s too tired to argue. He feels his head tilting forward. Feels Lafayette’s arms wrapping around his body. Holding him close. Carrying him like a treasured parcel.

He’s carried from his room. John’s mind supplies him with excuses and pleas to be fearful. But John can’t manage the strength for all of that. Lafayette’s body is warm against his head. His arms are tight around John’s body. It’s nice.

 He goes to sleep, thinking that he couldn’t have asked for a better dream to come true. Maybe that’s what he should change his contact to.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time John’s awake, he’s not in his bedroom. He’s in Lafayette’s. There are blankets draped over him. A washcloth on his head. A bucket on the floor in case he’s sick again. He’s been dressed in warm, loose fitting clothes that John can hug tight around his body.

He hears a sound, and rolls. Turning to look up at Lafayette. “When’d I get here?” he asks, as the Frenchman slowly approaches. Lafayette’s dark hand reaches out. Plucks Elle up. John flushes. He hadn’t even realized Elle was there. That Lafayette brought her with them. Because he vaguely remembers Lafayette picking him up...and then nothing. 

“Late last night,” Lafayette tells him. Tracing fingers across John’s brow. “You were very sick.”

To warrant all of this? “Not sick enough.” John scoots up a little, but is pushed back down.

“Your fever just broke. Get some rest. I’ll get you food.” Food sounds good. Very good. John nods slowly.

 They’re dating, he reminds himself.

Which means...this is what people do for the people they’re dating. “Laf…” Lafayette pauses at the door. Turns to look back at him. “Thank you.”

The other man grins. _“Tout mon amour.”_

Next time he falls asleep, it’s with his head resting on Lafayette’s chest. Feeling it rise and fall. This isn’t sex. This isn’t fighting. This is...this is a relationship. A real one. And sick as he is, John thinks he’s never been happier.

 

* * *

 

Their date on Saturday is cancelled.

 John gets well enough to go to class by Wednesday, but he’s infected Lafayette. And unlike John, who could have managed his illness on his own without any help whatsoever, Lafayette seems to have never experienced a “dreaded American plague” before.

He sneezes and moans like he’s never going to make it through the day. He coughs and claws at his throat. He pouts miserably. Makes grabby hands at John who takes to fetching and carrying and following Lafayette’s every whim and demand.

 It’s strangely amusing. Lafayette, generally so poised and in control, perfectly content to walk around with a busted hand or sprains or bruises littering his body, is a complete baby. A complete ninny. A damned fool. “You’re pathetic,” John informs after he fetches Lafayette another cup of tea.

 Lafayette’s apparent ability to speak in intelligible English vanishes the moment he falls ill. He spews something in French that makes John blink at him pointedly. Then spreads his arms. He wants to be cuddled. Wants to be waited on hand and foot. And John will. Of course he will. But that doesn’t mean he’s not going to give him shit for it.

 That doesn’t mean that when he pulls Lafayette into the shower he’s not going to coo in his ear and tell him that he’s so weak John could have his way with him. He never _would,_ of course. But it’s amusing to watch as Lafayette simultaneously attempts to grind back into him and keel over in a coughing fit.

 But when he’s puking? When sick is coming out both ends and Lafayette’s dark skin looks sickly pale? John holds his hair back. Keeps those fluffy curls from getting in the way. Strokes Lafayette’s back. Braces his shoulder. Fetches him a sprite to settle his stomach. “You’re okay,” he whispers. “You’re okay.”

 They curl up together, and John takes care of Lafayette. It’s nice. Taking care of someone. Being allowed to. It’s nice that the doubts haven’t started creeping in. Haven’t taken over or clouded his mind.

 Every time Lafayette says or does something unbelievably spoiled or whiny, John rolls his eyes. Kisses his cheek.

 They get through it.

 And emerge on the other side.

 

* * *

 

 

One healthy week turns into two. He gets a text message while he’s on his way back to his dorm from class.

 

_[Gilbert]_

_Let’s have our date tonight. I’ll pick you up at 7._

 

John stares at the screen. Suddenly wondering if he could become violently ill in a short span of time. He bites his lip. Struggles to come up with an excuse. “John!” he looks up.

Peggy. His RA hurries over to him. “I’m so glad I found you. Can I talk to you for a moment?” he nods numbly. Still holding his phone like a ticking bomb. Waiting to explode at any moment. They start heading back to their dorm, and Peggy get’s going. “I’ve heard about what you did.”

“With what?” Kidnapping Aaron? Alienating Alex? Fucking Lafayette? Not realizing he was dating?

“About Mitchell Thoms.”

“Who?”

“Mitchell Thoms? Greg Thoms’ son?” Name’s still drawing a blank. John shakes his head. He’s got no idea. “This tall,” she makes a hand motion. Starts describing a kid. That he was getting harassed.

 The story clicks in John’s mind. “Oh! The kid those punks were picking on?” There seemed to be a lot of them. Just the other day he saw someone acting like a twit to this tween at the coffee shop.

“Yes!” Peggy smiled. “I just wanted to check in with you. Let you know that Greg’s really happy you looked out for him. Mitch has been telling all the kids at his school that he’s going to come here one day because of you.”

That’s...a lot of pressure to put on someone who just wanted to get into a fight. He mouths words he can’t quite speak. But nods. “Anyway...How’re you doing? I haven’t seen you and Alex together in a while.” She words it carefully. Because Alex is always in the dorm these days. With Aaron. John clenches his hands into fists.

 He does _not_ want to talk about Alex. Doesn’t want to think about any part of Alex or Aaron. About kidnapping Aaron because he did something to Alex. About Any of it. Alex and Aaron can go fuck off and he needs to think of something else to say, because Peggy’s waiting for an answer.

His brain misfires. Tries to form words. Spits out the first that comes to mind. “How do you go on a date?” he asks.

Peggy’s feet stop abruptly. She’s looking at John like she’s never seen him before. Laser sharp focus. Mouth twisting up in a grin. She’s _pleased._ Pleased beyond measure. Her amusement is something that John’s not going to forget for as long as he lives. Because she reaches out for him. Takes him by the arm, and tells him, “Oh John, I’ve got you covered.” And while Peggy’s never done anything to give John reason to fear her, at this moment: he’s got a _bad_ feeling about this.


	5. Official First Date

Peggy dives through John’s drawers. Looking for something he’s sure she won’t find. She tsks under her breath as she inspects his carefully folded pants. Eventually pulling out a pair of dark jeans that are in relatively good condition. Black, and solid enough that they could almost pass for _nice._

 “Do you have an undershirt?” Peggy asks, and John shrugs awkwardly. She hums, flicks through his T’s. Eventually pulling out a white one and tossing it at him. The collar’s low on this. A V-neck that he usually only wears to bed. “I’ll be right back. Wait here.” The words are friendly. The tone? Drill sergeant. John replaces his shirt, and tugs on the jeans. He feels ridiculous. Rubs at his fingers as he stares down at himself. 

Peggy returns almost ten minutes later with an arm full of shirts. She tosses them on John’s bed, then holds them up in front of John one at a time. Left eye winked closed. Tongue peeking out from her mouth as she makes her decision. 

Nodding curtly, she pushes a black shirt with white...things...on it against his chest. “Put that over your T,” she commands. Fumbling fingers struggle with the buttons, but he complies. He slides his arms through the sleeves, adjusts the collar so it sits properly against the back of his neck. Then does up the buttons proper. 

Peggy watches him the whole time, nodding her head. When he’s done, the shirt feels a little tight around his chest. She makes a gesture towards him and he holds his arms out for her to do what she wants. She strides close, adjusts how it sits on his hips. Around his shoulders, then steps back again. “ _Perfect.”_  

Taking hold of his arm, she drags him from his room. Hurrying down the hall, up a set of stairs, around a corner, and into her room. She deposits him in front of a full length mirror she’s got hanging from her closet door. Then waves her hands around him like Vanna White - Ta da!

John thinks he’s going to be sick. 

“Where’d you even find this?” he asks, because he’s got no idea how she pulled this together. Peggy grins.

“I know everything that goes on in this dorm.” That’s…. really creepy, actually. Especially considering what’s gone on in this dorm. A part of him gets irritated at the suggestion, too. 

Snapping, “And you just let a lot of shit slide?” Peggy’s mouth presses into a thin line. She crosses her arms over her chest.

“There’s only so much I can do. Don’t take inaction for not caring. I’m caring now, aren’t I?” And John wants to snap at her again. Wants to argue. But, the fight drains out of him. Fading into nothingness. He hugs his arms over his chest. Pretty shirt tight in all directions. “C’mon. I can help you with your hair,” Peggy murmurs. Taking him by the hand and leading him to her desk chair. She sits him down, then starts collecting supplies. She doesn’t mention his SNAFU, and in truth— he’s grateful for it. 

Peggy’s own hair gives her a preternatural understanding of how curls work. They can’t be brushed out. Can’t be adjusted _too_ much. But Peggy comes with sprays and specialty brushes. She takes hold of his bangs and starts pulling them this way and that. Humming to herself as she starts making a neat tail from the small handful she’s collected. She sprays it down. Gels it into place.

 Angles his head towards a small mirror on her desk so he can look at himself and she can admire her handiwork as she crafts. She runs her fingers through the rest of his curls, letting them bounce but keeping them from frizzing. John could admit that it looks better than it did before, but he hardly recognizes his reflection at all.

Once finished, she grins. Pride written all over her features. “Perfect,” she repeats. “You look _perfect.”_  

He nods numbly. Licks his lips. Mumbles a thank you. The clock ticks seven exactly, and Peggy hugs him. Sends him on his way. Makes him promise to tell her all about it later. He walks in a daze down the hall. Down the stairs. Passing Kitty, who actually stops short to stare at him.

“You look...nice,” she manages.

“Well as long as I have the Kitty-Seal-Of-Approval,” he spits back. Her face twists. She marches away.

Fuck her.

John steps out of the dorm— there’s Lafayette’s car. He takes a deep breath, forces his feet forward. One right after the other. It’s show time.

He opens the car door and lets himself in. Lets his eyes slide to Lafayette, and freezes. Mouth falling open in shock. If he thought _he_ looked strange dressed all nice and proper, _Lafayette_ looks positively flawless. Wild hair seemingly insignificant compared to the purple suit jacket and pants, white collared shirt, and wry expression Lafayette all wears with ease.

And John? Uncomfortable and feeling worse by the minute. He barely manages a hello. Lafayette reaches for him, takes his hand and gives him a gentle tug. Lips cross John’s cheek. Lightly sliding over his mouth. “ _Tu es beau,”_ Lafayette whispers against his flesh. John manages a nod. A thank you. He hopes it conveys.

Probably didn’t. _Speak John. Speak._ “You too,” he chokes on the words. He’s tense. So uncomfortably tense he’s not sure he’s going to survive the night. His heart’s in his throat. He’s damn near vibrating. Lafayette squeezes his hand. Then pulls out onto the main road.

The street lights flicker as they pass. Sometimes staying on, sometimes turning off. John distracts himself, tries to guess which will happen next. There’s an uncomfortable silence that’s filling the car to an almost unmanageable level. They’ve always had something to talk about. Even if most of the time it’s about ridiculous nonsense.

And this is _silly._ It’s silly. They just saw each other a few hours ago. Lafayette made him crepes for breakfast. John _loves_ his crepes. They’re sweet and lovely, and John’s never really been too keen for breakfast, but he loves those crepes. Best part of the morning.

 They’d shared music, and John let Lafayette add more songs to his iPod. And there’d been no awkward tension. No fear or paranoia. No need to dress up or to look proper. John shifts in his seat. Tugs on the sleeves of his borrowed shirt. His hair feels uncomfortable. His skin itches.

Lafayette sighs and shakes his head. Mutters something in French. _“C'est incroyable.”_ Incredible? John thinks? What is? Was that sarcasm? “Tell me about Kitty.” It comes out more as an order than a request.

Sharp and without the light tone Lafayette usually adopts. John’s not sure he knows what to say or how to explain Kitty. _Don’t give opinions,_ he remembers from his research. Even Peggy had warned him not to talk too much. When she’d been doing his hair, she’d given him all sorts of do’s and don’ts. (“ _Is this your first date? Really! That’s fantastic. Okay! So, first thing’s first…”)_

And when he goes to speak, his mouth is dry. He breathes in air like he’s breathing underwater. Lungs refusing to register. Transfer the oxygen to his bloodstream. He’s going to pass out if this keeps up, and he nudges the window button. Lowers it a crack. Cool air whistles into the car. “She’s in a class,” John mumbles. Fuck it. “I don’t like her.”

Lafayette smiles at the words. Sends him a glance sidelong. Nodding. “She’s quite...passionate.” He’s baiting, John realizes. Baiting and hoping for a response. Familiar ground. Neutral territory. John feels some of his tension lessening. This...this he can do. This he can do all day.

“Her _passion_ is exactly her problem.” Kitty’s still locked into high-school mentality. Graduating up from the local high school and treating college like 13th grade. She and all her friends gathered round acting like the same bullshit losers they were just seven months ago.

Every other class? People don’t seem to be quite as bitchy. Sure, lab’s a joke, but John can at least blame himself for that. The kids there irk him, and he has no patience for their crap. But they weren’t straight up _assholes_ like Kitty.

He tells Lafayette exactly that. Waving his hand and gesturing as he speaks. Lafayette nods his head and prods him to continue. So he does. Rambles on. Unable to stop. Just puts the words in his mouth and spits them out rapid fire.

There are a few things that John knows. One, he’s not a nice person. Two, he’s not a natural orator. And he knows the stories are disjointed and that they don’t make much sense. He knows that they’re not that good. But he says them anyway, and Lafayette doesn’t stop him. So that’s find. That’s okay. He’s pretty sure.

They pull into the parking lot of Montcalm, and John’s mouth snaps closed. Eyes widening. Sick feeling returning en masse. _Oh, fuck._ His clothes are weighing him down. Hands clammy as he opens his door. Sniffling his nose and shuffling his feet.

 Lafayette rounds the car. Offers him his elbow. And John doesn’t want to take it. Doesn’t want to be the girl in this relationship. ( _Call him daddy…_ ) Doesn’t want to be seen as weak or less than. But...this is a restaurant. And they’re dating. And. And. And.

 John takes his elbow. Shaking violently as they go up the stairs and into the restaurant. And shit. It’s absolutely beautiful. It’s gorgeous. Painted walls. This is dating. This is dating. He reminds himself that he’s in a relationship. That he chose to be with Lafayette and that means this. This as well as that.

 He misses the _that_.

The Maitre’D barely glances at their joined arms. Instead just seats them for their reservation (because of course Lafayette made a reservation), and hands them their menus. Lafayette says they were interested in their wine selection. Red. Please? The Maitre’D nods his head in understanding, wishes them a pleasant evening, then retreats 

There’s a process to this, and John’s never going to understand how it works. He looks down at the table. There’s more forks and knives than he knows what to do with. He keeps his hands folded in his lap. And stares at them. Willing knowledge to replace ignorance by osmosis.

Lafayette makes a noise under his breath. Reaches out across the table and holds his hand towards him. Palm up. John stares at it for a moment, then breathes in. He reaches back. Takes it. Watches as Lafayette’s thumb rolls across his knuckles. He takes John’s hand, lowering it onto the utensil farthest away from his plate. _“Les couverts,”_ he starts, “Start at the end then move in. All in order of use. Forks on left, tines down _à la Françoise._ Knives on right. Spoon to the right of knife.”

 “This is for water,” Lafayette continues, pulling John’s hand to the largest wine glass on the table. To John’s left. “Red wine, white,” he waves John’s hand over each glass in turn. Still rubbing at his knuckles. Comforting and sweet the whole while.

 The waiter arrives with a bottle of red wine, dressed in black slacks and vest over a white button up. There’s an honest-to-God bow-tie around his neck. He introduces himself. Jeffrey. John’s hands are shaking again, but Lafayette squeezes down. Keeps him steady.

Jeffrey motions with the bottle. Holding it by the neck and the base. Revealing it to them both. John can’t tell what it’s called. “May I offer you the house wine?” they’re asked.

 And Lafayette nods his head imperiously. Slouches just a touch in his chair. A kind of practiced arrogance that comes with doing this many times before. A confident understanding of how this all works. The dynamic’s been set. Jeffrey confers with Lafayette and Lafayette alone.

 The bottle is poured. Rich liquid filling Lafayette’s glass, then carefully halted. Not a drop is spared. reaching forward, Lafayette’s dark fingers wrap around the crystal. Lifts it up. Swirls it under his nose as he draws breath. Then drinks one sip. Holds it in his mouth.

John’s heart is pounding away. A heart attack might be imminent.

 _“Bien,”_ Lafayette declares. “ _Très bien, merci_.” Jeffrey nods his head. Offers his thanks as well. As if his greatest pleasure was giving Lafayette something he enjoyed. That Lafayette’s thanks required thanks in turn. John’s glass gets filled with wine. The bottle is settled nearby.

Cheese and crackers are placed between them. Hands appearing from multiple servers who are dressing their table with special tastes and treats. There’s far too many people with an interest in giving them a proper meal, and John’s spine straightens. His muscles go taut. 

Lafayette’s watching him out of the corner of his eye, even as he inspects the menu and answers Jeffrey’s questions. It looks like he’s about to order, and John may be an uncultured swine, but he’s capable of ordering his own damn food. “We need more time,” he barks out. Jeffrey looks startled, but rallies quickly. Scurrying off to get them water or whatever else goes along with this.

John’s half expecting the champagne flute to come out next.

Opening his menu, John glares at the words. Same as on the website. All of it’s in _fucking_ French. He’s squeezing his fingers around it so hard he can feel his joints start to ache. Heat’s rising to his cheeks. This is stupid. All of this.

Dating isn’t worth this.

Isn’t worth how uncomfortable he is in his borrowed clothes. Isn’t worth the embarrassment he feels circling around his stomach. _(“Sit up boy, don’t you know better than to slouch?”)_ “It’s impolite to put your elbows on the table.” John’s half convinced that’s another memory, but the accent is wrong, and John’s going to splash this red wine all over Lafayette’s fancy purple suit if he says one more thing about how out of touch John is. 

 _“Cher?”_ John looks up. Seething. Ready to walk right out. And that’s the joke of it all. Nothing has happened. Nothing except for Lafayette being polite, getting them some wine, and being dressed proper. And yet John wants to shout at him. Wants to argue. Wants to ruin his fancy clothes and smack that grin off Lafayette’s face. “Do you need help?” Lafayette asks him sweetly. Batting his eyelashes.

John’s mouth falls open. He blinks once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession. He’s. He’s being _teased._ “You fucking planned this,” John accuses. The reality standing stark naked before them all. Lafayette had known that John would be uncomfortable. That John wasn’t going to be able to read the menu. That he’d hate every second of this.

 Lafayette just grins at him. Scoots his chair closer to the table so he can lean forward and murmur to him quietly. “We’re dating, mon amour. And you seemed determined to want a _date. Et voilà.”_ He waves his his hand around.

“I didn’t _want_ a date,” John snaps. “I just didn’t realize they _were_ dates.” Hiking and rock climbing...bumper cars. He’d never thought dates could look like that. Could actually be something fun. He’d always thought they’d be like this. Fancy dinners that made him think of things he didn’t want to think about. Money he didn’t want to spend.

The menu bends slightly in John’s too tight grip. He lets up. Forces his eyes back onto the table. _Desperately_ ignoring the price of everything. “I don’t like feeling stupid.” He should have said it. Knows that he’s ruining this date with every word he says. But if he doesn’t physically remove himself from his situation, then all the pent up energy he has is going to come out of his eyes. He’s going to cry huge tears in this too expensive restaurant, and he doesn’t think that’s going to be much better.

_(“Never do anything right do you?”)_

 Lafayette’s quiet for a moment. Then he sighs. Shifts his chair around so they’re sitting next to each other. He can’t sit there. The table’s not set for that. He’s in the hallway. He’s going to get in trouble. But Lafayette’s not done. He starts moving all the table arrangements. Glasses are turned upside down and set off to the side. Forks and spoons and knives are collected and pushed away. John’s cheeks flush even darker than ever before. “Stop it, you’re ruining it—stop.” He reaches to halt Lafayette’s progress, but is swatted away.

Then, Lafayette snaps a hand out. Catches John’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You stop,” he insists. Pulling John’s menu from his hands. Opening it. He Drapes one arm along the back of John’s chair as he points at the words. “This is mussels. This is veal. This is chicken. It’s a soup. Light. Garlic in it.” He goes through the whole menu. Item by item. When Jeffrey starts wandering over, Lafayette waives him away with an imperious gesture.

His arm stays at John’s back. His body crowds John close. He smells nice. John has no idea what it is, but it’s nice. John sits, frozen, hands in his lap. Staring at the menu. Nodding his head at each translated word. At each careful explanation. The teasing anecdotes Lafayette puts in to describe each item. 

When he finds something that actually sounds halfway decent, John mumbles something about the cost. “I’m paying, mon amour,” Lafayette replies quietly. 

It’s not fair. Not right. “I’m a shit date,” he explains. Lafayette’s arm moves from the back of John’s chair, to right around his shoulders. He pulls John’s body sideways. Presses his lips to John’s temple. 

“You’re _my_ date,” he excuses easily.

Jeffrey is finally allowed to approach. And with as much bravado as John can muster, he stumbles through _“Les aiguillettes de canard, à la façon de L’Auberge.”_ Lafayette smiling at him and nodding as he mangles the order.

Jeffrey doesn’t seem to notice that it’s all wrong. Just writes it down, “Of course, sir, and for you? _Monsieur?_ ” John tries not to feel inadequate when Lafayette easily rattles off an appetizer, a salad, an entree, then says something about wanting to see their dessert menu later. Jeffrey thanks them again, then hurries off.

Someone comes round to collect their discarded dishes with only the mildest show of dissatisfaction. “That’s a lot of food,” John comments. Hands feeling empty without the menu to mutilate.

 “It’s not,” Lafayette excuses. “Your portions are too large here.” He heaves a great sigh. “Food is meant to be cherished. Enjoyed. Eating is an experience to carry through much time. A pleasure in of itself. You Americans. Shoveling food in your mouths. So busy to get somewhere your food is always on the go. With your... _doggie_ bags.”

 John looks over at their wine glasses. He hasn’t had much of a chance to drink wine before. Never really cared much for its taste as it was. “We didn’t get carded,” he commented wryly.

 “Twenty- _one_ ,” Lafayette scoffs. “And you wonder why you all cannot drink responsibly. _Absurde._ If I am to spend money in a restaurant such as this, _”_ he picks up his glass and sips it. “I expect to drink wine.” 

 Lafayette, John’s starting to realize, can be quite the smarmy bastard at times. He snorts. Reaches for his own glass and takes a tentative sip. It’s...fruity. Not as sour as he’d thought it’d be. Nice actually. He sips it again. Thoughts running in circles. He should say something. Anything. He’s not as angry as he was before. The cold impracticality of the night settling into a resigned acceptance.

 He’s not actively exploding out of his skin. Which means that this is good. This is...this is good. It’s okay. _Say something, John._ He scolds himself. _Don’t make this worse._ “I’m not calling you ‘daddy,’” he blurts. _Great job._

 Lafayette’s head whips around. Stares at John’s face like he can’t believe the words just left John’s lips. John drains his wine glass in one long pull. Swallowing it all of it as best he can because he needs at least a bottle to get over the embarrassment of _that_ comment.

 Well. Might as well just flamethrower that whole article while he’s at it. “My dad was an asshole and I have absolutely _no_ desire to ever mention the existence of a father of any kind. So if you think I’m going to call you that—”

 “—Why would I think that?” Lafayette asks. He sounds honestly perturbed by the notion. “Did Alex tell you to call me that?”

“What? _No!_ I don’t get dating advice from Alex!” Never mind the fact that he’d _asked_ Alex for advice. Alex had never _given_ it. Never wrote back. So it doesn’t matter. _He_ doesn’t matter. “And why would Alex tell me to call you that? Has he called _you_ that?” Lafayette’s shaking his head. Seems torn between laughing or being horrified, and John groans. Waves towards Lafayette’s wine glass. 

He’s given it, and allowed to drain this too. John realizes he’s going to get drunk. Knows that he’s two glasses in and Lafayette’s appetizer hasn’t even arrived yet. But Lafayette just pours them both more wine from the bottle. Hardly seeming to care that John’s new plan of attack is to drink or eat his way through this dinner. 

Sighing theatrically, Lafayette actually makes a face. “Mon amie never calls me anything save my name. It is so sad. Are we not friends?” 

“I don’t call you anything except your name,” John realizes. “I—I mean. We’re dating. Should. Should I call you by your first name?” Lafayette snorts.

“I’d rather if you didn’t, if it’s all the same.” John pulls his cell-phone from his pocket. Draws up Lafayette’s contact and stares at the screen. Lafayette looks like he might say something. Probably about how rude it is to have your cell phone at the table. But instead, he leans closer. Presses his head against John’s and watches him work.

 [Gilbert] stares up at them, and Lafayette moans. “ _Mon Amour_ , do I not deserve something more affectionate?”

 Snorting, he taps the contact. Starts erasing it. Hesitates. Then tentatively types in: [Boyfriend].  takes its place.

 No. Absolutely not. Even Lafayette’s snickering at that. 

Erase.

 [Lafayette] is too clinical. [Sweetie] brings up too many bad associations. Well, not _bad._ But the guilt sits too heavy. The frustration weighs too deep. He pauses over his next selection. Thinks about it. Then finds his fingers moving on their own.

 [Mon Amore]

 “Non,” Lafayette shakes his head. “That one’s mine.” And it doesn’t go both ways. John thinks about writing [Querida] but Jeffery comes by with Lafayette’s appetizer. Derails his train of thought.

The plate really is quite small.  There’s not much there. But Lafayette seems oblivious. Cuts with the side of his fork. Raises a portion to John’s mouth. But it doesn’t stop Lafayette from lifting the fork to John’s mouth. Letting him try some. Lafayette’s grinning. A secret smile. A hint of rebelliousness coursing through him, reflecting in his eyes.

John’s not sure he gets it, understands. “It’s _impolite,_ ” Lafayette stresses, bringing another forkful up to John’s lips. Arm at his back, pulling John forward. Dark eyes watching as John opens his mouth. Eats on command. “To take food from another’s plate.”

It may be impolite, but John recognizes that look. Feels his body responding to it. Lafayette likes this. Likes feeding John. Pushing him this way and that. Lifting the wine glass up for John to sip at. Watching as John’s body starts to heat up. As John’s breaths start slowing down. His body leaning into every one of Lafayette’s careful touches.

“Father would be so displeased,” Lafayette stresses. And John feels himself grinning. _That_ he could work with. Anything to make his father furious works for him. And clearly, it works for Lafayette too.

John’s head starts to buzz. Doesn’t matter. He leans closer. Feels bolder. “Wanna make him mad?” he asks curiously. Lafayette’s pupils are blown. He’s a force. A presence John’s never going to be able to shake off or get rid of.

And fuck everything else.

He doesn’t want to let it go. “Always,” Lafayette tells him. And he chases the wine from John’s lips.

 

* * *

 

The food’s good. The table’s a mess. The bill’s expensive. John’s _very_ drunk. Lafayette wraps an arm around his waist. Leads him back to the car. Laughs as John rubs his hands all over Lafayette’s body. He wants to touch him. Wants to fall into him.

 Wants to physically sink into Lafayette’s body. Head passing through flesh so he can nuzzle his nose against Lafayette’s heart. Favorite person ever. Ever. Of all time. He tells Lafayette as much. “You’re my favorite,” he says as Lafayette buckles him into the car.

 _"Votre préféré?”_ Lafayette hums. Kissing him soundly before stepping back and closing the door. That was nice of him. John can do nice. He scrambles and leans to the driver’s side. Opens it as best he can, pushing it with his fingers so that it’s cracked and all Lafayette has to do is pull. 

Snorting, Lafayette does just that. Settling into the seat before turning and taking John’s face in his hands. “Tell me how I’m your favorite _, mon amour.”_

And that’s easy. Especially drunk. Words are just _there_ when he’s drunk. It’s like, they fall from his mouth and there’s no need to stop. And he doesn’t care. Right?

“Right,” Lafayette agrees. John blinks. Lafayette can read his mind. That’s _awesome._  

And he laughs so perfectly. John loves hearing Lafayette laugh. He’s doing it now, and John thinks he’s telling Lafayette about how much he loves it, but he’s not sure. 

“You are,” Lafayette promises. And that’s nice too. 

“And I love being called ‘ _mon amour’_ , and you fight like crazy. And it’s great. It’s amazing. You’re my favorite fighter. Favorite everything. Favorite fighting Frenchman!” John giggles because that sounds silly. And alliterative. And he likes it. He does. He really does. It’s fantastic. Doesn’t Lafayette think it sounds fantastic?

 John pulls out his cellphone. Lafayette’s hand reaches out and plucks it from his fingers. “As your boyfriend, I believe it is my duty to not let you call anyone drunk, mon amour.” John blinks at him. Doesn’t understand.

 “Oh! No, no, no. Contact. Gotta change my contact. F... gonna remember you’re under F. F.F. Three Fs. Gimme.” He tries to get it back, but Lafayette’s a tricky bastard. Very quick. Very responsible. “I think I drank all your wine,” John moans. Slumping down on to the center console and feeling Lafayette’s elbow with the crown of his head. That feels nice. Really nice. So nice. It’d be nicer if Lafayette had his arm around John’s shoulders. 

The weight resettles. Wraps around him. “Effy,” John sighs. “Lots of Fs.” Lafayette hums. “Like three Fs.” 

“Three Fs.” Lafayette agrees. The car stops. John moans. Lafayette pulls away from him. Leaves. That’s not fair. That’s not. The door opens. And Lafayette leans over him. Much better. 

John presses his lips to Lafayette’s throat. Kisses up and down its length. Sucks on it a little. Swats his hand over and pats along Lafayette’s body. Seatbelt tangling around his wrist as he’s hoisted up. “Always pickin’ people up. _Tan fuerte. Mi galán. Mi pareja Frances. Favorita del Francés fuerte…”_

  _“Tu parles espagnol?”_

 _“Yo hablo español. Es mejor. Estúpida francés._ No sé _fucking French._ ” 

Lafayette’s laughing at him. John can tell. He’s very drunk. But that doesn’t matter. He can tell. Lafayette’s laughing. And John’s going to say something about that. Any minute. Lafayette lays him down on their bed. Kisses the side of his face. _“Dormez bien, mon amour.”_  

“Don’t wanna go back to the dorm,” John mutters. Grabbing onto Lafayette’s arm and pulling him closer. “Just stay. Laughing. S’nah nice.” 

John thinks he meant to say something else. 

But he forgot. And he falls asleep with Lafayette curled around his back. Undoing his hair from its wrap, and stroking his fingers through his curls.


	6. Final Date

Peggy thinks the fact John got drunk on his date means the date wasn’t successful. She’s disappointed in him, but manages to keep her opinions on underage drinking to herself. Even states that Lafayette did the responsible thing by not sleeping with John while he was intoxicated. And sure, John can agree with that.

But he refrains from telling Peggy that in the morning, after Lafayette gave him a gallon of water to drink and made him crepes that didn’t immediately come right back up with the rest of his hangover’s bull shit, Lafayette pinned John to the bed and repeated every filthy thought and misdeed they’d apparently discussed while John had been _very_ drunk in a fancy French restaurant.

 He also refrains from telling her that somehow, without his knowledge, his contact for Lafayette was changed to [Favorite Fighting Frenchman <3] and he’s pretty sure he wasn’t the one to type it in. He snorts when he sees it, though. Brings the phone up to his nose and taps it once. Amused by the ridiculousness of it all.

 His only real disappointment was that he wasn’t there to watch Lafayette slide that purples suit off. Watch that silky fabric disappears onto the floor (okay, Lafayette would probably hang it up, but the floor just works better in John’s mind).

 John swears he’ll be fully conscious next time. No more getting drunk on dates. The after-party’s the best part. “So we’re going on dates now?” Lafayette asks when he brings it up. “Another dinner, perhaps?”

 “No. No more dinners,” John stuffs his hand in his pocket and pulls out a flyer for a Latin dance class that’d been pinned to the community board near the cafeteria. “Come with me?” he asks. He tries very hard not to blush. And is basically successful. Lafayette takes it gingerly between his hands, and nods.

 “I would love to, mon amour.”

 

* * *

 

John doesn’t plan for this date. Doesn’t fret. Doesn’t think about it. He keeps the time in his phone, sets an alarm, then goes about his life. He attends class. Trades barbs with Kitty. Rolls his eyes at his lab partners.

The kids around town seem to flock to him for some reason. He sees them from time to time. They approach him. And he awkwardly answers their questions. Walks with them if they’re going the same direction. So they’re not alone. Not getting messed with.

 John doesn’t get why they like being with him. But it’s...nice. In a strange way.

He comes home and sometimes he and Lafayette bare knuckle box in the living room. Sometimes they have an intense workout session in the basement. Sometimes they throw on their running shoes and take off down the road. Side by side. Matching each other breath for breath. 

John barely goes back to the dorm. He sleeps in Lafayette’s bed. Trading position and places. Biting on flawless flesh. Growling out half remembered words in French that make Lafayette’s eyes widen. Make him grin as he recognizes them. Looking up dating advice online hadn’t worked out so well.

Looking up how to talk dirty in French did. He groans out a litany of “C’est bon, c’est bon, c’est bon.” He grinds down on Lafayette’s body in the work out room, moans into his mouth “Prends-moi par derrière.”  Manages “S’il vous plaît” at least once before it became too hard to speak.

Lafayette points out things during the day. Explaining what to call each item, and how to pronounce it properly. “Careful,” Lafayette explained. “If the word ends in any consonant that’s _not_ in the word careful, it is not spoken. It is silent.”

“So...C, R, F, L are the only consonants you hear?” John clarifies.

“For the most part, as the last letter in a word, _oui_. 'N' as well. So thing 'In Careful' rather than just 'careful.'” 

John tries it out. He’s really bad at it. But Lafayette just smiles at him. Nods his head. Then whispers filthy things in his ear, promising him all kinds of rewards if John can memorize this next phrase.

 

* * *

 

They go dancing. John’s not comfortable in crowds. Hates being around the noise and the chaos. But the dance class is small. It’s a collection of students in a Latin club on campus. _El Cafecito._ Lafayette had been perplexed by the name, and John tried to explain that it meant a group of people getting together, like they would _for_ coffee. But it hadn’t quite made it through the three language barriers Lafayette had put up.

It didn’t really matter.

The leader of the club, Daniel, joyously welcomed them to the lessons, and had them stand in line. Showed them where to place their hands. How to step. John played willing ignorance throughout the lesson. Letting Lafayette get his feet under him and figure out the steps.

Salsa and bachata aren’t hard. It’s just a matter of moving. And Lafayette’s got a decent ear for music as it is. He can certainly foxtrot his way around the kitchen with ease. After about half an hour, he’s easily sliding into position. Feet going exactly where they need to go. No hesitation or furrowed brow.

And that’s when John takes over. 

When the music switches to the next song, and Daniel lets them freestyle for the last part of the hour. John steps back, and _leads._ Steps forward and gets Lafayette stepping back in time. Turns, throwing Lafayette’s arm up so he has to move. Has to walk with him. 

Lafayette’s eyes widen. His mouth spreads into a grin that John _revels_ in making. He lets himself be led. Moved. Turned. Pushed in and out. Nudged backwards and forwards. His legs move and intertwine. A bastardized salsa and tango in one. Steps are blurring together, and it’s not exactly _flawless,_ but it’s fast paced and non-stop. 

Over in his corner, Daniel applauds. The others clear out a little space for them to keep going. Lafayette takes over. Always fighting for control. But that’s fine. John’s played girl more than once. It’s almost easier at this point. Knowing how to move. How to be alluring if need be. He even knows how to end this.

So he moves. Steps. Crosses his legs. Sinks low, rises up. keeps his eyes on Lafayette and all his perfect moves. Lafayette’s got a _body_ underneath his baggy shirt and jeans. Well toned and well cut. You’d never know just by looking at him. Never know just how solidly built he was. But John knows.

John’s walked his fingers up and down the six-pack abs. He’s bitten his way across those toned shoulders. Those tight hips. He’s sank down and owned every part of Lafayette’s body. And he knows how to make it move. How to make it respond. How to tease and flirt.

He watches it as it sways a little too far out of rhythm. Uninterested in the music, more interested in John. Fighting and dancing. Both a long winded metaphor for sex. John leans in. Lets his hand get swept up. Pulled up. Spun. Thrown out. His feet fall into perfect formation. Lafayette tugs him back, and John doesn’t raise his elbow high enough.

 It smacks against Lafayette’s lips. And he spins to a stop at his side. “Oh,” he lifts his hands to cup Lafayette’s face. Blood dripping onto his boyfriend’s fingers from where he pressed them to his lip. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

 Lafayette’s looking at him. Dark eyes getting darker by the moment. Breath going ragged. _Bullshit._

 “Are you all right?” Daniel asks. Scurrying over to them. Lafayette grins. There’s blood staining his teeth. John licks his lips. Feels his heart starting to go into overdrive as his adrenaline spikes.

 Lafayette excuses, “Yeah we’re perfect, just got carried away.” Daniel nods and chides John. Letting him know he should be more careful.

 “But things like this happen all the time,” Daniel admits. Then, to Lafayette, he finishes: “Thanks for being such a good sport!”

 The dance class is over.

 They don’t even make it back to Lafayette’s house.

 John’s dorm is closer.

 Just across the street. Up a few flights of stairs.

 John barely says ‘hi’ to Peggy before he’s flying up to his dorm. They’re breathless against each other in moments. Lafayette pinning John to his dorm room door. Mouth biting savagely against John’s throat. “Think that was funny?” Lafayette asks him.

And no. It wasn’t funny. Not at all. It was _hot._ John undulates. Gasps. Throws his head back. Moaning out Lafayette’s name as he’s hoisted. As he’s pinned onto every part of his room. Taken roughly. Brutally. Perfectly.

There are bruises forming on his hips. Hands at his throat, choking off any moans he might have. Springs of his mattress squeaking beneath them as Lafayette buries himself inside John’s body. “Why’d you do it?” he asks. Licking the back of John’s ear as he struggles to breathe. “Hmm? Right there...in front of all those people. Why’d you do it?”

“Because I can,” John gasps out. Can’t hold back the desperate whine that comes next. Can’t ignore the burning pressure that’s going to eat him alive. “Because you let me,” he keeps going. Riding the high. Fluttering and active.

Incapable of doubt. Incapable of confusion. Here in this moment, with Lafayette enrapturing all of his senses, John’s incapable of seeing anything else. Of knowing a world exists. “And why do I let you?” Lafayette asks.

Grinding even deeper. Pushing even harder. He reaches down. Wraps his hand around John’s dick. Squeezing brutally hard. The pain— sublime. “Tell me, mon amour. Tell me or you don’t get to come.”

“Because I’m yours,” he gets out. Then, feeling bold he adds on, “Because you’re my Favorite Fighting Frenchman,” with a cheeky grin.  

He’d meant it as a joke. A tease. But it catches Lafayette so off guard that he releases John just enough to laugh and snicker against John’s shoulder. Unleashing John’s orgasm and incapable of holding back his own any longer. They both finish at the same time, moans and laughs mixing in one. Tears starting because the rapid fire sensations are too much.

And that’s probably the biggest joke of them both. That they can hurt each other, tear each other to pieces, break each other, and rip each other to shreds. But buried balls deep within each other, they still find ways to giggle at the most absurd jokes. Blood falling from their skin, John still looks up at Lafayette with the same devotion as Lafayette does when he looks back down at him. 

Lafayette pulls out. Rotates so that they can lay together on the bed. His body over John’s. Crowding and possessive all in one. “Mon amour, mon monstre préféré.”

“My Effy,” John says back, just because. Lafayette snorts. “Like. Three Fs.”

 “Three Fs,” Lafayette agrees. Shaking his head and pressing his sweating brow to John’s throat. “Mine,” he insists. As always. A promise John will never tire of hearing.

 

* * *

 

Jefferson takes Alex the very next day.

 

* * *

  
It’s harder to be as happy after that.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at: falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com


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